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Little  Classics. 


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^eucntl)  IDolume. 


Little  Classics. 


EDITED     BY 


ROSSITER   JOHNSON, 


ROMANCE 


IRIS.   — THE    ROSICRUCIAN.  THE   SOUTH    BREAKER.  THE    SNOW-STORM. 

THE    KING    OF    THE    PEAK. 


BOSTON; 
HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN    AND   COMPANY. 


Copyright,  1875. 
By  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


CAMDRIDGE  :    PRINTED    AT    THE    RIVERSIDE    PRESS 


^^^^S3 


CONTENTS. 


Iris 


Page 

Oliver  Wendell  Hohnes       .      .         7 


The  RosICRUCIAN       .       .       .  Dmak  Maria  Miilock  Craik      .  83 

The  South  Breaker    .     .  Harriei  Prescott  Spofford  .     .  115 

The  Sx\o\v-STCR'i      .     .     .  joim  wihou 184 

The  King   of   the    Peak.    .  Allan  Cunningkum       .      .      .  206 


IRIS. 

FROM    "the    professor   AT   THE    BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


pjl  TOLD  you  that  I  was  perfectly  sure,  before- 


hand, we  should  find  some  pleasing  girlish  or 
womanly  shape  to  fill  the  blank  at  our  table  and 
match  the  dark-haired  youth  at  the  upper  corner. 

There  she  sits,  at  the  very  opposite  corner,  just  as  far 
off  as  accident  could  put  her  from  this  handsome  fellow, 
by  whose  side  she  ought,  of  course,  to  be  sitting.  One 
of  the  "  positive  "  blondes,  as  my  friend,  you  may  remem- 
ber, used  to  call  them.  Tawny-haired,  amber-eyed,  full- 
throated,  skin  as  white  as  a  blanched  almond.  Looks 
dreamy  to  me,  not  self-conscious,  though  a  black  ribbon 
round  her  neck  sets  it  off  as  a  Marie-Antoinette's  dia- 
mond-necklace could  not  do.  So  in  her  dress,  there  is  a 
Imrmony  of  tints  that  looks  as  if  an  artist  had  run  his  eye 
over  her  and  given  a  hint  or  two  like  the  finishing  touch 
to  a  picture.  I  can't  help  being  struck  with  her,  for  she 
is  at  once  rounded  and  fine  in  feature,  looks  calm,  as 


(5  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

blondes  are  apt  to,  and  as  if  she  iniglit  run  wild,  if  she 
were  trifled  with.  —  It  is  just  as  I  knew  it  would  be,  — 
and  anybody  can  see  that  our  young  Marylander  will  be 
dead  in  love  with  her  in  a  week. 

Then  if  that  little  man  would  only  turn  out  immensely 
rich  and  have  the  good-nature  to  die  and  leave  them 
all  his  money,  it  would  be  as  nice  as  a  three-volume 
novel. 

The  Little  Gentleman  is  in  a  flurry,  I  suspect,  with  the 
excitement  of  having  such  a  charming  neighbor  next  him. 
I  judge  so  mainly  by  his  silence  and_  by  a  certain  rapt 
and  serious  look  on  his  hice,  as  if  he  were  thinking  of 
something  that  had  happened,  or  that  might  happen,  or 
that  ought  to  happen,  —  or  how  beautiful  her  young  life 
looked,  or  how  hardly  Nature  had  dealt  with  him,  or 
something  which  struck  him  silent,  at  any  rate.  I  made 
several  conversational  openings  for  him,  but  he  did  not 
fire  up  as  he  often  does.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  in- 
dulge in  a  fling  at  the  State  House,  which,  as  we  all 
know,  is  in  truth  a  very  imposing  structure,  covering 
less  ground  than  St.  Peter's,  but  of  similar  general  eff'ect- 
The  little  man  looked  up,  but  did  not  reply  to  my  taunt. 
He  said  to  the  young  lady,  however,  that  the  State  House 
was  the  Parthenon  of  our  Acropolis,  which  seemed  to 
please  her,  for  she  smiled,  and  he  reddened  a  little,  —  so 
I  thouglit.  I  don't  think  it  right  to  watch  persons  who 
are  the  subjects  of  special  infirmity,  — but  we  all  do  it. 

I  sec  that  they  have  crowded  the  chairs  a  little  at  that 
end  of  the  table,  to  make  room  for  anollur  new-comer  of 
the  lady  sort.  A  wcll-uiounted,  middle-aged  preparation, 
wearing  her  hair  without  a  cap,  —  pretty   wide  in  the 


IRIS.  9 

parting,  tliougli,  —  contours  vaguely  hiuted,  —  features 
very  quiet,  —  says  little  as  yet,  but  seems  to  keep  lier 
eye  on  the  young  lady,  as  if  having  some  responsibility 
for  her. 

II. 

You  remember,  perhaps,  in  some  papers  published 
awhile  ago,  an  odd  poem  written  by  an  old  Latin  tutor  ? 
He  brought  up  at  the  verb  amo,  I  love,  as  all  of  us  do, 
and  by  and  by  Nature  opened  her  great  livmg  dictionary 
for  him  at  the  word  jiUa,  a  daughter.  The  poor  man 
was  greatly  perplexed  in  choosing  a  name  for  her.  Lu- 
cretia  and  Virginia  were  the  first  that  he  thought  of; 
but  then  came  up  those  pictured  stories  of  Titus  Livius, 
which  he  could  never  read  without  crying,  though  he  had 
read  them  a  hundred  times. 

Lucretia  sending  for  her  husband  and  her  father,  each 
to  bring  one  friend  with  him,  and  awaiting  them  in  her 
chamber.  To  them  her  wrongs  briefly.  Let  them  see  to 
the  wretch,  —  she  will  take  care  of  herself.  Then  the 
hidden  knife  flashes  out  and  sinks  into  her  heart.  She 
slides  from  her  seat,  and  falls  dying.  "Her  husband 
and  her  father  cry  aloud."  —  No,  —  not  Lucretia. 

—  Yirginius,  —  a  brown  old  soldier,  father  of  a  nice 
girl.  She  engaged  to  a  very  promising  young  man. 
Decemvir  Appius  takes  a  violent  fancy  to  her,  —  must 
have  her  at  any  rate.  Hires  a  lawyer  to  present  the  ar- 
guments in  favor  of  the  view  that  she  was  another  man's 
daughter.  There  used  to  be  lawyers  in  Rome  that  Avould 
do  such  tilings.  —  All  right.  There  are  two  sides  to 
everything.     Audi  alteram  partem.     The  legal  gentleman 


10  LITTLE    CLASSlCSc 

has  no  opiuiou,  —  lie  only  states  the  evidence.  —  A  doubt- 
ful case.  Let  the  young  lady  be  under  the  protection  of 
the  Honorable  Decemvir  until  it  can  be  looked  up  thor- 
oughly. —  Father  thinks  it  best,  on  the  whole,  to  give  in. 
Will  explain  the  matter,  if  the  young  lady  and  her  maid 
mil  step  this  vray.  That  is  the  explanation,  —  a  stab 
with  a  butcher's  knife,  snatched  from  a  stall,  meant  for 
other  lambs  than  this  poor  bleeding  Virginia ! 

The  old  man  thought  over  the  story.  Then  he  must 
have  one  look  at  the  original.  So  he  took  down  the  first 
volume  and  read  it  over.  When  he  came  to  that  part 
where  it  tells  how  the  young  gentleman  she  was  engaged 
to  and  a  friend  of  his  took  up  the  poor  girl's  bloodless 
shape  and  carried  it  through  the  street,  and  how  all  the 
women  followed,  wailiug,  and  asking  if  tliat  was  what 
their  daughters  were  coming  to,  —  if  that  was  what  they 
were  to  get  for  being  good  girls,  —  he  melted  down  into 
liis  accustomed  tears  of  pity  and  grief,  and,  through  them 
all,  of  delight  at  the  cliariuing  Latin  of  the  narrative. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  call  his  child  Virginia.  He 
could  never  look  at  her  without  thinking  she  had  a  knife 
sticking  in  her  bosom. 

Dido  would  be  a  good  name,  and  a  fresh  one.  She 
was  a  queen,  and  the  founder  of  a  great  city.  Her  story 
had  been  immortalized  by  the  greatest  of  poets,  —  for  the 
old  Latin  tutor  clove  to  "  Virgilius  Maro,"  as  he  called 
him,  as  closely  as  ever  Dante  did  in  his  memorable  jour- 
ney. So  he  took  down  his  Virgil,  —  it  was  the  smooth - 
leafed,  open-lettered  quarto  of  Baskerville,  —  and  began 
reading  the  loves  and  mishaps  of  Dido.  It  would  n't  do. 
A  lady  who  had  not  learned  discretion  by  experience. 


IRIS.  11 

and  came  to  an  evil  end.  He  shook  Lis  Lead,  as  Le  sadly 
repeated, 

" misera  ante  diem,  subitoque  accensa  furore  "  ; 

but  wLen  Le  came  to  tLe  lines, 

"  Ergo  Iris  croceis  per  ccelum  roscida  penais 
Mille  trahens  varios  adverso  Sole  colores," 

Le  jumped  up  witL  a  great  exclamation,  wliicL  tLe  par- 
ticular recording  angel  wLo  Leard  it  pretended  not  to 
understand,  or  it  migLt  Lave  gone  Lard  ^\'itL  tLe  Latin 
tutor  some  time  or  otLer. 

"■Iris  sLall  be  Ler  name  !  "  —  Le  said.  So  Ler  name 
was  Iris. 

III. 

The  natural  end  of  a  tutor  is  to  perisL  by  starvation. 
It  is  only  a  question  of  time,  just  as  witL  tLe  burning  of 
college  libraries.  TLese  all  burn  up  sooner  or  later,  pro- 
vided tLey  are  not  Loused  in  brick  or  stone  and  iron.  I 
don't  mean  tLat  you  will  see  in  tLe  registry  of  deatlis  tLat 
tLis  or  tLat  particular  tutor  died  of  well-marked,  uncompli- 
cated starv^ation.  TLey  ma}/,  even,  in  extreme  cases,  be  car- 
ried off  by  a  thin,  watery  kuid  of  apoplexy,  wLicli  sounds 
very  well  in  tLe  returns,  but  means  little  to  tLose  wLo 
know  tLat  it  is  only  debility  settling  on  tLe  Lead.  Gen- 
erally, Lowever,  tliey  fade  and  waste  away  under  various 
pretexts,  —  calling  it  dyspepsia,  consumption,  and  so  on, 
to  put  a  decent  appearance  upon  tLe  case  and  keep  up 
tLe  credit  of  tLe  family  and  tLe  institution  wLere  tLey 
have  passed  tLrougli  tlie  successive  stages  of  inanition. 

In  some  cases  it  takes  a  great  many  years  to  kill  a 


12  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

tutor  by  the  process  iu  question.  You  see,  they  do  get 
food  and  clotlies  and  fuel,  in  appreciable  quantities,  such 
as  they  are.  You  will  even  notice  rows  of  books  in  their 
rooms,  and  a  picture  or  two,  —  thmgs  that  look  as  if  they 
had  surplus  money ;  but  these  superfluities  are  the  tcater 
of  crystallization  to  scholars,  and  you  can  never  get 
them  away  till  the  poor  fellows  effloresce  into  dust.  Do 
not  be  deceived.  The  tutor  breakfasts  on  coffee  made 
of  beans,  edulcorated  with  milk  watered  to  the  verge  of 
transparency ;  his  mutton  is  tough  and  elastic,  up  to  the 
moment  when  it  becomes  tired  out  and  tasteless ;  his  coal 
is  a  sullen,  sulphurous  anthracite,  which  rusts  into  ashes, 
rather  than  burns,  in  the  shallo\r  grate  ;  his  flimsy  broad- 
cloth is  too  thin  for  Avinter  and  too  thick  for  summer. 
The  greedy  lungs  of  fifty  hot-blooded  boys  suck  the  oxy- 
gen from  the  air  he  breatlies  in  his  recitation -room.  In 
short,  he  undergoes  a  process  of  gentle  and  gradual  star- 
vation. 

The  mother  of  little  Iris  was  not  called  Electra, 

like  hers  of  the  old  story,  neither  was  her  grandfather 
Oceanus.  Her  blood-name,  which  she  gave  away  with  her 
heart  to  the  Latin  tutor,  was  a  plain  old  English  one,  and 
her  water-name  was  Hannah,  beautiful  as  recalling  the 
mother  of  Samuel,  and  admirable  as  reading  equally  well 
from  the  initial  letter  forwards  and  from  the  terminal 
letter  backwards.  The  poor  lady,  seated  with  her  com- 
panion at  the  chess-board  of  matrimony,  had  but  just 
pushed  forward  her  one  little  white  pawn  u])on  an  empty 
square,  when  the  Black  Knight,  that  cares  nolhiug  for 
castles  or  kings  or  queens,  swooped  down  upon  her  and 
swept  lier  from  the  larger  board  of  life. 


IRIS.  13 

The  old  Latiii  tutor  put  a  modest  blue  stone  at  tlie 
head  of  his  late  companion,  with  her  name  and  age  and 
Eheu  !  upon  it,, —  a  smaller  one  at  her  feet,  with  initials ; 
and  left  her  by  herself,  to  be  rained  and  snowed  on,  — 
which  is  a  hard  thing  to  do  for  those  whom  we  have  cher- 
ished tenderly. 

About  the  time  that  the  lichens,  falling  on  the  stone, 
like  drops  of  water,  had  spread  into  fair,  round  rosettes, 
the  tutor  had  starved  into  a  slight  cough.  Then  he  be- 
gan to  draw  the  buckle  of  his  black  pantaloons  a  little 
tighter,  and  took  another  reef  in  his  never-ample  waist- 
coat. His  temples  got  a  little  hollow,  and  the  contrasts 
of  color  in  his  cheeks  more  vivid  than  of  old.  After 
a  while  his  walks  fatigued  him,  and  he  was  tired,  and 
breathed  hard  after  going  up  a  flight  or  two  of  stairs. 
Then  came  on  other  marks  of  inward  trouble  and  general 
waste,  which  he  spoke  of  to  his  physician  as  peculiar, 
and  doubtless  owing  to  accidental  causes ;  to  all  which 
the  doctor  listened  with  deference,  as  if  it  had  not  been 
the  old  story  that  one  in  five  or  six  of  mankind  in  tem- 
perate climates  tells,  or  has  told  for  him,  as  if  it  were 
something  new.  As  the  doctor  went  out,  he  said  to  him- 
self, —  "  On  the  rail  at  last.  Accommodation  train.  A 
good  many  stops,  but  will  get  to  the  station  by  and  by." 
So  the  doctor  wrote  a  recipe  with  the  astrological  sign 
of  Jupiter  before  it  (just  as  your  own  physician  does, 
inestimable  reader,  as  you  will  see,  if  you  look  at  his 
next  prescription),  and  departed,  saying  he  would  look 
in  occasionally.  After  this,  the  Latin  tutor  began  the 
usual  course  of  "  getting  better,"  until  he  got  so  much 
better  that  his  face  was  very  sharp,  and  Arheu  he  smiled. 


14  LITTI^    CLASSICS. 

three  crescent  lines  sliowed  at  each  side  of  his  hps,  and 
when  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  muffled  whisper,  and  the 
wliite  of  his  eye  glistened  as  pearly  as  tli^  purest  porce- 
lain, —  so  much  better,  that  he  hoped  —  by  spring  —  he 

might  be  able  —  to  —  attend to  his  class 

again.  —  But  he  was  recommended  not  to  expose  himself, 
and  so  kept  his  chamber,  and  occasionally,  not  having 
anything  to  do,  his  bed.  The  unmarried  sister  with  whom 
he  lived  took  care  of  him  ;  and  the  child,  now  old  enough 
to  be  manageable,  and  even  useful  in  trifling  offices,  sat 
in  the  chamber,  or  played  about. 

Things  could  not  go  on  so  forever,  of  course.  One 
morning  his  face  was  sunken  and  his  hands  were  very, 
very  cold.  He  was  "  better,"  he  whispered,  but  sadly 
and  faintly.  After  a  while  he  grew  restless  and  seemed 
a  little  wandering.  His  mind  ran  on  his  classics,  and 
fell  back  on  the  Latin  grannnar. 

"  Iris  !  "  he  said,  —  ''  filiola  mea  !  "  —  The  cliikl 
knew  this  meant  my  dear  little  daughter  as  well  as  if 
it  had  been  English.  —  "  Rainbow  !  "  —  for  he  would 
translate  her  name  at  times, — "come  to  me,  —  veni'^ 
—  and  his  lips  went  on  automatically,  and  murmured, 
*^  vel  venitof''  —  The  child  came  and  sat  by  his  bed- 
side and  took  his  hand,  which  she  could  not  warm,  but 
which  shot  its  rays  of  cold  all  through  her  slender 
frame.  But  there  she  sat,  looking  steadily  at  him. 
Presently  he  opened  his  lips  feebly,  and  whispered, 
"  Morilmndusy  She  did  not  know  \\\\\\\  that  meant, 
but  she  saw  that  there  was  something  new  and  sad. 
So  she  began  to  cry  ;  but  presently  remembering  an  old 
book  that  seemed  to  comfort  liini  at  times,  got  up  and 


IRIS.  15 

brought  a  Bible  in  the  Latin  version,  called  the  Yuigate. 
"  Open  it,"  he  said,  —  "I  will  read,  —  segnius  irritant, 
—  don't  put  the  light  out,  —  ah  !  hceret  lateri,  —  I  am 
going,  —  vale,  vale,  vale,  good  by,  good  by,  —  the  Lord 

take  care  of  my  child !  — Bomim,  audi vel  audito  !  " 

His  face  whitened  suddenly,  and  he  lay  still,  with  open 
eyes  and  mouth.     He  had  taken  his  last  degree. 

Little  Miss  L'is  could  not  be  said  to  begin  life 

with  a  very  brilliant  rainbow  over  her,  in  a  worldly  point 
of  view.  A  Hmited  wardrobe  of  man's  attire,  such  as  poor 
tutors  wear,  —  a  few  good  books,  principally  classics,  — 
a  print  or  two,  and  a  plaster  model  of  the  Pantheon, 
with  some  pieces  of  furniture  which  had  seen  service,  — 
these,  and  a  child's  heart  full  of  tearful  recollections  and 
strange  doubts  and  questions,  alternating  with  the  cheap 
pleasures  which  are  the  anodynes  of  childish  grief; 
such  were  the  treasures  she  inherited.  —  No,  —  I  forgot. 
With  that  kindly  sentiment  which  all  of  us  feel  for  old 
men's  first  children,  —  frost-flowers  of  the  early  winter 
season,  —  the  old  tutor's  students  had  remembered  him 
at  a  time  when  he  was  laughing  and  crying  with  his  new 
parental  emotions,  and  running  to  the  side  of  the  plain 
crib  in  which  his  alter  ego,  as  he  used  to  say,  was  swing- 
ing, to  hang  over  the  little  heap  of  stirrmg  clothes,  from 
which  looked  the  minute,  red,  downy,  still,  round  face, 
with  unfixed  eyes  and  working  lips,  —  in  that  unearthly 
gravity  which  has  never  yet  been  broken  by  a  smile,  and 
which  gives  to  the  earliest  moon-year  or  two  of  an 
infant's  life  the  character  of  a  firnt  old  age,  to  counter- 
poise that  second  childhood  which  there  is  one  chance  in 
a  dozen  it  may  reach  by  and  by.     The  boys  had  remem- 


16  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

bered  the  old  man  and  young  fatlier  at  that  tender 
period  of  his  hard,  dry  life.  There  came  to  him  a  fair, 
silver  goblet,  embossed  ^dth  classical  figures,  and  bear- 
ing on  a  shield  the  graven  words,  Ex  dono  pupillorum. 
The  handle  on  its  side  showed  what  use  the  boys  had 
meant  it  for,  and  a  kind  letter  in  it,  written  with  the 
best  of  feeling,  in  the  worst  of  Latin,  pointed  delicately 
to  its  destination.  Out  of  this  silver  vessel,  after  a  long, 
desperate,  strangling  cry,  which  marked  her  first  great 
lesson  in  the  realities  of  life,  the  child  took  the  blue 
milk,  such  as  poor  tutors  and  their  children  get,  tem- 
pered with  water,  and  sweetened  a  little,  so  as  to  bring 
it  nearer  the  standard  established  by  the  touching  in- 
dulgence and  partiality  of  Nature,  —  who  has  mingled 
an  extra  allowance  of  sugar  in  the  blameless  food  of  the 
cliild  at  its  mother's  breast,  as  compared  with  that  of  its 
infant  brothers  and  sisters  of  the  bovine  race. 

But  a  willow  will  grow  in  baked  sand  wet  with  rain- 
water. An  air-plant  will  grow  by  feeding  on  the  whids. 
Nay,  those  huge  forests  that  overspread  great  conthients 
have  built  themselves  up  mainly  from  the  air-currents 
with  which  they  are  always  battling.  The  oak  is  but  a 
foliated  atmospheric  crystal  de])ositcd  from  the  aerial 
ocean  that  holds  the  future  vegetable  world  in  solution. 
The  storm  that  tears  its  leaves  has  paid  tribute  to  its 
strength,  and  it  breasts  the  toi-nado  clad  in  the  spoils  of 
a  hundred  hurricanes. 

Poor  little  Iris  !  What  had  .»ho  in  coiimion  with  the 
great  oak  in  the  shadow  of  which  we  are  losing  sight  of 
her  ?  —  She  lived  and  grew  like  tliat,  —  tliis  was  all. 
The  blue  milk   ran  into  her  veins  and  filled  them  with 


IRIS.  17 

thin,  pure  blood.  Her  skin  was  fair,  witli  a  faint  tinge, 
such  as  the  white  rosebud  shows  before  it  opens.  The 
doctor  wlio  had  attended  her  father  was  afraid  lier  aunt 
would  hardly  be  able  to  "  raise  "  her,  —  "  delicate 
child,"  —  hoped  she  was  not  consumptive,  —  thought 
there  was  a  fair  chance  she  would  take  after  her  father. 

A  very  forlorn-looking  person,  dressed  in  black,  with 
a  white  neckcloth,  sent  her  a  memoir  of  a  child  who 
died  at  the  age  of  two  years  and  eleven  months,  after 
having  fidly  indorsed  all  the  doctrines  of  the  particular 
persuasion  to  which  he  not  only  belonged  himself,  but 
thought  it  very  shameful  that  everybody  else  did  not 
belong.  What  with  foreboding  looks  and  dreary  death- 
bed stories,  it  was  a  wonder^ the  cliild  made  out  to  live 
through  it.  It  saddened  her  early  years,  of  course,  — 
it  distressed  her  tender  soul  with  thoughts  which,  as 
they  cannot  be  fully  taken  in,  should  be  sparingly  used 
as  instruments  of  torture  to  break  down  the  natural 
cheerfulness  of  a  healthy  child,  or,  what  is  infinitely 
worse,  to  cheat  a  dyhig  one  out  of  the  kind  illusions 
with  which  the  Eather  of  All  has  strewed  its  downward 
path. 

The  child  would  have  died,  no  doubt,  and,  if  properly 
managed,  might  have  added  another  to  the  long  cata- 
logue of  wasting  children  who  have  been  as  cruelly  played 
upon  by  spiritual  physiologists,  often  with  the  best  in- 
tentions, as  ever  the  subject  of  a  rare  disease  by  the 
curious  students  of  science. 

Fortunately  for  her,  however,  a  wise  instinct  had 
guided  the  late  Latin  tutor  in  the  selection  of  the  part- 
ner of  his  life,  and  the  future  mother  of  liis  child.     The 


18  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

deceased  tutoress  was  a  tranquil,  smooth  woman,  easily 
nourished,  as  such  people  are,  —  a  quality  which  is  ines- 
timable in  a  tutor's  wife,  —  and  so  it  happened  that  the 
daughter  inherited  enough  vitality  fi-om  the  mother  to 
live  through  childhood  and  infancy  and  fight  her  way 
towards  womanhood,  in  spite  of  the  tendencies  she  de- 
rived from  her  other  parent. 

Two  and  two  do  not  always  make  four,  in  this 

matter  of  hereditary  descent  of  qualities.  Sometimes 
they  make  three,  and  sometimes  five.  It  seems  as  if  the 
parental  traits  at  one  time  showed  separate,  at  another 
blended, — that  occasionally  the  force  of  two  natures  is 
represented  in  the  derivative  one  by  a  diagonal  of  greater 
value  than  either  original  line  of  living  movement,  — 
that  sometimes  there  is  a  loss  of  vitality  hardly  to  be 
accounted  for,  and  again  a  forward  impulse  of  variable 
intensity  in  some  new  and  unforeseen  direction. 

So  it  was  with  this  child.  She  had  glanced  off  from 
her  parental  probabilities  at  an  unexpected  angle.  In- 
stead of  taking  to  classical  learning  like  her  father,  or 
sliding  quietly  into  household  duties  like  her  mother,  she 
broke  out  early  in  efforts  that  pointed  in  the  direction  of 
Art.  As  soon  as  she  could  hold  a  pencil  she  began  to 
sketch  outlines  of  objects  round  her  with  a  certain  air 
and  spirit.  Very  extraordinary  horses,  but  their  legs 
looked  as  if  they  covdd  move.  Birds  unknown  to  Audu- 
bon, yet  flying,  as  it  were,  with  a  rusli.  Men  with  im- 
possible logs,  which  did  yet  seem  to  have  a  vital  connec- 
tion with  their  most  improbable  bodies.  By  and  by  the 
doctor,  on  his  beast,  — an  old  man  with  a  face  looking  as 
if  Time  li:i(l    kiiraded  it  like  douLrli  witli   liis  knuckles, 


IRIS.  19 

with  a  rhubarb  thit  and  flavor  pervading  liinisclf  and  his 
sorrel  horse  and  all  their  appurtenances.  A  dreadful  old 
man !  Be  sure  she  did  not  forget  those  saddle-bags  that 
held  the  detestable  bottles  out  of  which  he  used  to  shake 
those  loathsome  powders  which,  to  virgin  childish  palates 

that  find  heaven  in  strawberries  and  peaches,  are 

Well,  I  suppose  I  had  better  stop.  Only  she  wished  she 
was  dead  sometimes  when  she  heard  him  coming.  On 
the  next  leaf  would  figure  the  gentleman  with  the  black 
coat  and  white  cravat,  as  he  looked  when  he  came  and 
entertained  her  with  stories  concerning  the  death  of  va- 
rious Uttle  children  about  her  age,  to  encourage  her,  as 
that  wicked  Mr,  Arouet  said  about  shooting  Admiral 
Bjng.  Then  she  would  take  her  pencil,  and  with  a  few 
scratches  there  would  be  the  outline  of  a  child,  in  which 
you  might  notic^  how  one  sudden  sweep  gave  the  chubby 
cheek,  and  two  dots  darted  at  the  paper  looked  like  real 
eyes. 

By  and  by  she  went  to  school,  and  caricatured  the 
schoolmaster  on  the  leaves  of  her  grammars  and  geog- 
raphies, and  drew  the  faces  of  her  companions,  and,  from 
time  to  time,  heads  and  figures  from  her  fancy,  with  large 
eyes,  far  apart,  like  those  of  Raifaelle's  mothers  and  chil- 
dren, sometimes  with  wild  floating  hair,  and  then  with 
wings  and  heads  thrown  back  in  ecstasy.  This  was  at 
about  twelve  years  old,  as  the  dates  of  these  drawings 
show,  and,  therefore,  three  or  four  years  before  she  came 
among  us.  Soon  after  this  time,  the  ideal  figures  began 
to  take  the  place  of  portraits  and  caricatures,  and  a  new 
feature  appealed  in  her  drawing-books  in  the  form  of 
fragments  of  verse  and  short  poems. 


20  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

IV. 

It  was  dull  work,  of  course,  for  such  a  young  girl  to 
live  with  au  old  spinster  and  go  to  a  village  school.  Her 
books  bore  testimony  to  this;  for  there  was  a  look  of 
sadness  in  the  faces  she  drew,  and  a  sense  of  weariness 
and  longing  for  some  imaginary  conditions  of  blessed- 
ness or  other,  which  began  to  be  painful.  She  might 
have  gone  through  this  flowering  of  the  soul,  and, 
casting  her  petals,  subsided  into  a  sober,  human  berry, 
but  for  the  intervention  of  friendly  assistance  and  coun- 
sel. 

In  the  town  where  she  lived  was  a  lady  of  honorable 
condition,  somewhat  past  middle  age,  who  was  possessed 
of  pretty  ample  means,  of  cultivated  tastes,  of  excellent 
principles,  of  exemplary  character,  and  of*  more  than  com- 
mon accomplishments.  The  gentleman  in  black  broad- 
cloth and  white  neckerchief  only  echoed  the  conunon 
voice  about  her,  when  he  called  her,  after  enjoying,  be- 
neath her  hospitable  roof,  an  excellent  cup  of  tea,  with 
certain  elegances  and  luxuries  he  was  unaccustomed  to, 
"  Tlie  Model  of  all  the  Virtues." 

She  deserved  this  title  as  well  as  almost  any  woman. 
She  did  really  bristle  with  moral  excellences.  Mention 
any  good  thing  she  had  not  done  ;  I  should  like  to  see 
you  try  !  There  was  no  handle  of  weakness  to  take  hold 
of  her  by ;  she  w?..^  as  unseizable,  except  in  her  totality, 
as  a  billiard-ball;  and  on  the  broad,  green,  terrestrial 
table,  where  she  had  been  knocked  about,  like  all  of  us, 
by  tlie  cue  of  Portune,  she  glanced  IVom  every  human 
contact,  and  "  caromod  "  from  one  relation  to  another, 


IRIS.  21 

and  rebounded  from  the  stuffed  cushion  of  temptation, 
with  such  exact  and  perfect  angular  movements,  that  the 
Enemy's  corps  of  Reporters  had  long  given  up  taking 
notes  of  her  conduct,  as  there  was  no  chance  for  their 
master. 

What  an  admirable  person  for  the  patroness  and  direc- 
tress of  a  slightly  self-willed  child,  with  the  hghtning  zig- 
zag line  of  genius  running  like  a  ghttering  vein  through 
the  marble  whiteness  of  her  virgin  nature  !  One  of  the 
lady-patroness's  peculiar  virtues  was  calmness.  She  was 
resolute  and  strenuous,  but  still.  You  could  depend  on 
her  for  every  duty  ;  she  was  as  true  as  steel.  She  was 
kind-hearted  and  serviceable  in  all  the  relations  of  life. 
She  had  more  sense,  more  knowledge,  more  conversation, 
as  well  as  more  goodness,  than  all  the  partners  you  have 
waltzed  with  this  winter  put  together. 

Yet  no  man  was  known  to  have  loved  her,  or  even  to 
have  offered  himself  to  her  in  marriage.  It  was  a  great 
wonder.  I  am  very  anxious  to  vindicate  my  character 
as  a  philosopher  and  an  observer  of  Nature  by  account- 
ing for  this  apparently  extraordinary  fact. 

Yon  may  remember  certain  persons  who  have  the  mis- 
fortune of  presenting  to  the  friends  whom  they  meet  a 
cold,  damp  hand.  There  are  states  of  mind  in  which  a 
contact  of  this  kind  has  a  depressing  effect  on  the  vital 
powers  that  makes  us  insensible  to  all  the  virtues  and 
graces  of  the  proprietor  of  one  of  these  life-absorbing  or- 
gans. Wlien  they  touch  us,  virtue  passes  out  of  us,  and 
we  feel  as  if  our  electricity  had  been  drained  by  a  power- 
ful negative  battery,  carried  about  by  an  overgrown  hu- 
man torpedo. 


2a  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  The  Model  of  all  the  Virtues  "  had  a  pair  of  search- 
ing eyes  as  clear  as  Weiiham  ice  ;  but  they  were  slower 
to  melt  than  that  fickle  jewelry.  Her  features  disordered 
themselves  slightly  at  times  in  a  surface-smile,  but  never 
broke  loose  from  their  corners  and  indulged  in  the  riot- 
ous tumult  of  a  laugh,  —  which,  I  take  it,  is  the  mob-law 
of  the  features,  —  and  propriety  the  magistrate  who  reads 
the  riot-act.  She  carried  the  brimming  cup  of  her  ines- 
timable virtues  with  a  cautious,  steady  hand,  and  an  eye 
always  on  them,  to  see  that  they  did  not  spill.  Then  she 
was  an  admirable  judge  of  character.  Her  mind  was  a 
perfect  laboratory  of  tests  and  reagents ;  every  syllable 
you  put  into  breath  went  into  her  intellectual  eudiom- 
eter, and  all  your  thoughts  were  recorded  on  litmus- 
paper.  I  think  there  has  rarely  been  a  more  admirable 
woman.  Of  course,  Miss  Iris  was  immensely  and  pas- 
sionately attached  to  her.  — ^—  Well,  —  these  are  two 
highly  oxygenated  adverbs,  —  grateful,  —  suppose  we 
say,  — yes,  — grateful,  dutiful,  obedient  to  her  wishes  for 
the  most  part,  —  perhaps  not  quite  up  to  the  concert 
pitch  of  such  a  perfect  orchestra  of  the  virtues. 

We  must  have  a  Aveak  spot  or  two  in  a  character  be- 
fore we  can  love  it  much.  People  that  do  not  laugh  or 
cry,  or  take  more  of  anything  than  is  good  for  them,  or 
use  anything  but  dictionary  words,  are  admirable  sub- 
jects for  biographies.  But  we  don't  always  care  most 
for  those  flat -i)af  tern  flowers  that  press  best  in  the  herba- 
rium. 

This  immaculate  woman,  —  why  could  n't  she  have  a 
fault  or  two?  Isn't  there  any  old  M'hisper  which  will 
tui'nisli    {]u\i    wearisome    aureole    of  saintly  perfection  ? 


IRIS.  23 

Does  n't  she  carry  a  lump  of  opium  in  her  pocket  ?  Is 
n't  her  cologne-bottle  replenislied  oftener  than  its  legit- 
imate use  would  require  ?     It  would  be  such  a  comfort ! 


V. 

Not  for  the  world  would  a  young  creature  like  Iris 
have  let  such  words  escape  her,  or  such  thoughts  pass 
through  her  iniud.  Whether  at  the  bottom  of  her  soul 
lies  any  uneasy  consciousness  of  an  oppressive  presence, 
it  is  hard  to  say,  until  we  know  more  about  her.  Iris 
sits  between  the  Httle  gentleman  and  the  "  Model  of  all 
the  Virtues,"  as  the  black-coated  personage  called  her. 
I  will  watch  them  all. 

I  am  sure  that  the  young  girl  can  hide  nothing  from 
me.  Her  skin  is  so  transparent  that  one  can  almost 
count  her  heart-beats  by  the  flushes  they  send  into  her 
cheeks.  She  does  not  seem  to  be  shy,  either.  I  think 
she  does  not  know  enough  of  danger  to  be  timid.  She 
seems  to  me  like  one  of  those  birds  that  travellers  tell- of, 
found  in  remote,  uninhabited  islands,  who,  having  never 
received  any  wrong  at  the  hand  of  inan,  show  no  alarm 
at  and  hardly  any  particular  consciousness  of  his  pres- 
ence. 

The  first  thing  will  be  to  see  how  she  and  our  little 
deformed  gentleman  get  along  together.  The  next  thing 
will  be  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  duenna,  —  the  "  MQdel " 
and  so  forth,  as  the  white-neckcloth  called  her.  The  in- 
tention of  that  estimable  lady  is,  I  understand,  to  launch 
her  and  leave  her.  I  suppose  there  is  no  help  for  it,  and 
I  don't  doubt  this  young  lady  knows  how  to  take  care  of 


24  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

herself,  but  I  do  not  like  to  see  young  girls  turned  loose 
in  boarding-liouses.  Look  here  now !  There  ib  that 
jewel  of  his  race,  whom  I  have  called  for  convenience 
the  Koh-i-noor  (you  understand  it  is  quite  out  of  the 
question  for  me  to  use  the  family  jiames  of  our  boarders, 
unless  I  want  to  get  into  trouble),  —  I  say,  the  gentle- 
man with  the  diamond  is  looking  v*y  often  and  very 
intently,  it  seems  to  me,  down  toward  the  farther  cor- 
ner of  the  table,  where  sits  our  amber-eyed  blonde.  The 
landlady's  daughter  does  not  look  pleased,  it  seems  to 
me,  at  this,  nor  at  those  other  attentions  which  the  gen- 
tleman referred  to  has,  as  I  have  learned,  pressed  upon 
tlie  newly-arrived  young  person.  The  landlady  made  a 
communication  to  me,  within  a  few  days  after  the  arrival 
of  Miss  Iris,  which  I  will  repeat  to  the  best  of  my  re- 
membrance. 

He  (the  person  I  have  been  speaking  of),  —  she  said, 

—  seemed  to  be  kinder  hankerin'  round  after  that  young 
woman.  It  had  hurt  her  daughter's  feelin's  a  good  deal, 
that  the  gentleman  she  was  a-keepin'  company  with 
sliould  be  oft'eriii'  tickets  and  tryin'  to  send  presents  to 
them  that  lie  'd  never  know'd  till  jest  a  little  spell  ago^ 

—  and  he  as  good  as  merried,  so  fur  as  solemn  promises 
went,  to  as  respectable  a  young  lady,  if  she  did  say  so, 
as  any  there  was  round,  whosomever  they  might  be. 

Tickets  !  presents  !  —  said  I.  —  What  tickets,  what 
presents,  lias  he  had  the  iuipertinence  to  be  ollcring  to 
that  young  lady  ? 

Tickets  to  the  Museum,  —  said  Iho  landlady.  —  There 
is  them  that's  glad  enough  to  go  to  tlie  Museum,  when 
tickets   is  given  'cm;   but  some   of  'em  ha'u't  had   a 


IRIS.  25 

ticket  seiice  Cendcrilla  was  played,  —  and  now  fie  must 
be  offerin'  'era  to  this  ridiculous  young  paintress,  or 
whatever  she  is,  that 's  come  to  make  more  mischief  than 
her  board's  worth.  But  it  a'n't  her  fault,  —  said  the 
landlady,  relenting ;  —  and  that  aunt  of  hers,  or  what- 
ever 'she  is,  served  him  right  enough. 

Wliy,  what  dicUshe  do  ? 

Do  ?  Why,  she  took  it  up  in  the  tongs  and  dropped  it 
out  o'  winder. 

Dropped  ?  dropped  what  ?  —  I  said. 

Why,  the  soap,  —  said  the  landlady. 

It  appeared  that  the  Koh-i-noor,  to  ingratiate  himself, 
had  sent  an  elegant  j)ackage  of  perfumed  soap,  directed 
to  Miss  Iris,  as  a  delicate  expression  of  a  lively  senti- 
ment of  admiration,  and  that,  after  having  met  with  the 
unfortunate  treatment  refen'ed  to,  it  was  picked  up  by 
Master  Benjamin  Eranklin,  who  appropriated  it,  rejoic- 
ing, and  indulged  in  most  unheard-of  and  inordinate 
ablutions  in  consequence,  so  that  his  hands  were  a  fre- 
quent subject  of  maternal  congratulation,  and  he  smelt 
like  a  civet-cat  for  weeks  after  his  great  acquisition. 

After  watching  daily  for  a  time,  I  think  I  can  see 
clearly  into  the  relation  which  is  growing  up  between  the 
little  gentleman  and  the  young  lady.  She  shows  a  ten- 
derness to  him  that  I  can't  help  being  interested  in.  If 
he  was  her  crippled  child,  instead  of  being  more  than  old 
enough  to  be  her  father,  she  could  not  treat  him  more 
kindly.  The  landlady's  daughter  said,  the  other  day, 
she  believed  that  girl  was  sett  in'  her  cap  for  the  Little 
Gentleman. 

Some  of  them  young  folks  is  very  artful,  —  said  her 

VOT..  VII.  2 


26  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

mother,  —  and  there  is  them  tliat  would  merry  Lazanis, 
if  he  'd  only  picked  up  crumbs  enough.  I  don't  think, 
though,  this  is  one  of  that  sort ;  she  's  kinder  chikllike, 
—  said  the  landlady,  —  and  maybe  never  had  any  dolls  to 
play  with ;  for  they  say  her  folks  was  poor  before  Ma'am 
undertook  to  see  to  her  teachin'  and  board  her  and  clothe 
her. 

I  could  not  help  overhearing  this  conversation.  "  Board 
her  and  clothe  her !  "  — *  speaking  of  such  a  young  crea- 
ture !  0  dear  !  —  Yes,  —  she  must  be  fed,  — just  like 
Bridget,  maid-of-all-work  at  this  establishment.  Some- 
body must  pay  for  it.  Somebody  has  a  right  to  watch 
her  and  see  how  much  it  takes  to  "  keep  "  her,  and  growl 
at  her,  if  she  has  too  good  an  appetite.  Somebody  lias  a 
right  to  keep  an  eye  on  her  and  take  care  that  she  does 
not  dress  too  prettily.  No  mother  to  see  her  own  youth 
over  again  in  those  fresh  features  and  rising  reliefs  of 
half-sculptured  womanhood,  and,  seeing  its  loveliness, 
forget  her  lessons  of  neutral-tinted  propriety,  and  open 
the  cases  that  hold  her  own  ornaments  to  find  for  her  a 
necklace  or  a  bracelet  or  a  pair  of  ear-rings,  —  those 
golden  lamps  that  light  up  the  deep,  shado\^7  dimples  on 
the  cheeks  of  young  beauties,  —  swinging  in  a  semibar- 
baric  splendor  that  carries  the  wild  fancy  to  Abyssinian 
queens  and  musky  Odalisques !  I  don't  believe  any  wo- 
man has  utterly  given  up  the  great  firm  of  Muudus  &  Co., 
so  long  as  she  wears  ear-rings. 

r  think  Iris  loves  to  hear  the  Little  Gentleman  talk. 
She  smiles  sometimes  at  his  vehement  statements,  but 
never  laughs  at  him.  When  he  speaks  to  her,  she  keeps 
licr  eye  always  steadily  upon  liiin.     This  may  be  only 


iius.  27 

natural  gaod-breoding,  so  to  speak,  but  it  is  wortli  no- 
ticing. I  have  often  observed  that  vulgar  persons,  and 
public  audiences  of  inferior  collective  intelligence,  have 
this  in  common :  the  least  thing  draws  off  their  minds, 
when  you  are  speaking  to  them.  I  love  this  young  crea- 
ture's rapt  attention  to  her  diminutive  neighbor  while  he 
is  speaking. 

He  is  evidently  pleased  with  it.  For  a  day  or  two 
after  she  came,  he  was  silent  and  seemed  nervous  and 
excited.  Now  he  is  fond  of  getting  the  talk  into  his  own 
hands,  and  is  obviously  conscious  that  he  has  at  least  one 
interested  listener.  Once  or  twice  I  have  seen  marks  of 
special  attention  to  personal  adornment,  —  a  ruffled  sliirt- 
bosom,  one  day,  and  a  diamond  pin  in  it,  —  not  so  very 
large  as  the  Koh-i-noor's,  but  more  lustrous.  I  men- 
tioned the  death's-head  ring  he  wears  on  his  right  hand. 
I  was  attracted  by  a  very  handsome  red  stone,  a  ruby  or 
carbuncle  or  something  of  the  sort,  to  notice  his  left 
hand,  the  other  day.  It  is  a  handsome  hand,  and  con- 
firms my  suspicion  that  the  cast  mentioned  was  taken 
from  his  arm.  After  all,  this  is  just  what  I  should  ex- 
pect. It  is  not  very  uncommon  to  see  the  upper  limbs, 
or  one  of  thsm,  running  away  with  the  whole  strength, 
and,  therefore,  with  the  whole  beauty,  which  we  should 
never  have  noticed,  if  it  had  been  divided  equally  between 
all  four  extremities.  If  it  is  so,  of  course  he  is  proud  of  his 
one  strong  and  beautiful  arm ;  that  is  human  nature.  I 
am  afraid  he  can  hardly  help  betraying  his  favoritism,  as 
l)eople  wIto  have  any  one  showy  point  are  apt  to  do,  — 
especially  dentists  with  handsome  teeth,  who  always  smile 
back  to  their  last  molavs. 


28  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Sitting,  as  ne  does,  next  to  the  yoiing  girl,  and  next 
but  one  to  the  calm  lady  who  has  her  in  charge,  he  can- 
not help  seeing  their  relations  to  each  other. 

That  is  an  admirable  woman,  Sir,  —  he  said  to  me  one 
day,  as  we  sat  alone  at  the  table  after  breakfast,  —  an 
admirable  woman.  Sir,  —  and  I  hate  her. 

Of  course,  I  begged  an  explanation. 

An  admirable  woman.  Sir,  because  she  does  good 
things,  and  even  kind  things,  —  takes  care  of  this  —  this 

—  young  lady  —  we  have  here,  talks  like  a  sensible  per- 
son, and  always  looks  as  if  she  was  doing  her  duty  with 
all  her  might.  I  hate  her  because  her  voice  sounds  as  if 
it  never  trembled,  and  her  eyes  look  as  if  she  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  cry.  Besides,  she  looks  at  me,  Sir,  stares 
at  me,  as  if  she  wanted  to  get  an  image  of  me  for  some 
gallery  in  her  brain,  — and  we  don't  love  to  be  looked  at 
in  this  way,  we  that  have^ ^I  hate  her,  — I  hate  her, 

—  her  eyes  kill  me,  —  it  is  like  being  stabbed  with  icicles 
to  be  looked  at  so,  —  the  sooner  she  goes  home  the  bet- 
ter. I  don't  want  a  woman  to  weigh  me  in  a  balance ; 
there  are  men  enough  for  that  sort  of  work.  The  judicial 
character  is  n't  captivating  in  females.  Sir.  A  womian 
fascinates  a  man  quite  as  often  by  what  she  overlooks 
as  by  what  she  sees.  Love  prefers  twilight  to  daylight ; 
and  a  man  does  n't  think  much  of,  nor  care  much  for,  a 
woman  outside  of  his  household,  unless  he  can  couple  the 
idea  of  love,  })ast,  present,  or  future,  with  her.  I  don't 
believe  tiic  Devil  would  give  half  as  much  for  the  services 
of  a  sinner  as  he  would  for  those  of  one  of  these  folks 
tliat  arc  always  doing  virtuous  acts  in  a  way  to  make 
tl)('iii  iiMj)leasing. — That  young  girl  waiiis  a  tender  na- 


IRIS.  29 

ture  to  cherish  her  and  give  lier  a  chance  to  put  out  ber 
leaves,  —  sunshine,  and  not  east  winds. 

He  was  silent,  —  and  sat  looking  at  his  handsome  left 
hand  with  the  red  stone  ring  upon  it.  —  Is  he  going  to 
fall  in  love  with  Iris  ? 


YI. 

The  young  man  John  asked  me  to  come  up  one  da/ 
and  try  some  "  old  Burl)on,"  whicli  he  said  was  A  1- 
On  asking  him  what  was  the  number  of  his  room,  he 
answered,  that  it  was  forty-'leven,  sky-parlor  tloor,  but 
that  I  should  n't  find  it,  if  he  did  n't  go  ahead  to  show 
me  the  way.  I  followed  him  to  his  habitat,  being  very 
willing  to  see  in  what  kind  of  warren  he  burrowed,  and 
thinking  I  might  pick  up  something  about  the  boarders 
who  had  excited  my  curiosity. 

The  young  man  John  fell  into  a  train  of  reflections 
which  ended  in  his  producing  a  Bologna  sausage,  a  plate 
of  "  crackers,"  as  we  Boston  folks  call  certain  biscuits, 
and  the  bottle  of  whiskey  described  as  being  A  1. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  crackers  and  sausage,  he 
grew  cordial  and  communicative. 

It  was  time,  I  thought,  to  sound  him  as  to  our  board- 
ers. 

What  do  you  think  of  our  young  Iris  ?  —  I  began. 

Eust-rate  little  filly ;  —  he  said.  —  Pootiest  and  nicest 
little  chap  I  've  seen  since  the  schoolma'am  left.  School- 
ma'am  was  a  brown-haired  one,  —  eyes  coffee-color. 
This  one  has  got  wine-colored  eyes,  —  'n'  that 's  the 
reason  they  turn  a  fellali's  head,  T  suppose. 


30  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

This  is  a  spendid  blonde,  —  1  said,  —  the  other  was  a 
brunette.     Which  style  do  you  like  best  ?  • 

Which  do  I  like  best,  boiled  mutton  or  roast  mutton  ? 
—  said  the  young  man  John.  Like  'em  both,  —  it  a'n't 
the  color  of  'em  makes  the  goodness.  I  've  been  kind 
of  lonelj  since  schoolma'am  went  away.  Used  to  like 
to  look  at  her.  I  never  said  anything  particular  to  her, 
that  I  remember,  but^ 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  cracker  and  sausage, 
or  that  the  "young  fellow's  feet  'were  treading  on  the  hot 
ashes  of  some  longing  that  had  not  had  time  to  cool, 
but  his  eye  glistened  as  he  stopped. 

I  suppose  she  woiild  n't  have  looked  at  a  fellah  like 
me,  —  he  said,  — but  I  come  pretty  near  tryin'.  If  she 
had  said,  Yes,  though,  I  should  n't  have  known  what 
to  have  done  with  her.  Can't  marry  a  woman  nowa- 
days till  you  're  so  deaf  you  have  to  cock  your  head  like 
a  parrot  to  hear  what  she  says,  and  so  long-sighted  you 
can't  see  what  she  looks  like  nearer  than  arm's-length. 

Here  is  another  chance  for  you,  —  I  said.  —  What  do 
you  want  nicer  than  such  a  young  lady  as  Iris  ? 

It's  no  use, — he  answered. — I  look -at  them  girls 
and  feel  as  the  fellah  did  when  he  missed  catchin'  the 
trout.  —  'To'od  'a'  cost  more  butter  to  cook  him  'n'  he 's 
worth,  —  says  the  fellah.  —  Takes  a  whole  piece  o'  goods 
to  cover  a  girl  up  nowadays.  I  'd  as  lief  undertake 
to  keep  a  span  of  elephants,  —  and  take  an  ostrich  to 
board,  too,  —  as  to  marry  one  of  'em.  What 's  the  use  ? 
Clerks  and  cc)unt6r-jiini|)ers  a'n't  anything.  Sparragrass 
and  green  ])cas  a'n't  for  Ihrm,  —  not  Avhih'  they  're  young 
and    tench-r.      ll()ssl);ick  ridin'    a'n't    for   I  hem,  —  except 


IRIS.  :31 

once  a  year,  —  on  Fast-day.  And  marryin'  a'n't  for 
them.  Sometimes  a  fellah  feels  lonely,  and  would  like 
to  have  a  nice  young  woman,  to  tell  her  how  lonely  he 
f^cls.  And  sometimes  a  fellah, — here  the  young  man 
John  looked  very  confidential,  and,  perhaps,  as  if  a  little 
asliamed  of  his  weakness,  —  sometimes  a  fellah  would 
like  to  have  one  o'  them  small  young  ones  to  trot  on 
his  knee  and  push  about  in  a  little  wagon,  —  a  kind  of 
a  little  Johnny,  you  know;  —  it's  odd  enough,  but,  it 
seems  to  me,  nobody  can  afford  them  httle  articles,  ex- 
cept the  folks  that  are  so  rich  they  can  buy  everything, 
and  the  folks  that  are  so  poor  they  don't  M-ant  anything. 
It  makes  nice  boys  of  us  young  fellahs,  no  doubt !  And 
it 's  pleasant  to  see  fine  young  girls  sittin',  like  shop- 
keepers behind  their  goods,  waitin',  and  waitiu',  and 
waitui',  'n'  no  customers,  —  and  the  men  hngerin'  round 
and  lookin'  at  the  goods,  like  folks  that  want  to  be  cus- 
tomers, but  have  n't  got  the  money  ! 

Do  you  think  the  deformed  gentleman  means  to  make 
love  to  Iris  ?  —  I  said. 

What !  Little  Boston  ask  that  girl  to  marry  him ! 
Well,  now,  that 's  comin'  of  it  a  little  too  strong.  Yes, 
I  guess  she  will  many  him  and  carry  him  round  in  a 
basket,  like  a  lame  bantam !  Look  here !  —  he  said, 
mysteriously ;  —  one  of  the  boarders  swears  there  's  a 
woman  comes  to  see  him,  and  that  he  has  heard  her 
singm'  and  screechm'.  I  should  like  to  know  what  he  's 
about  in  that  den  of  his.  He  lays  low  'n'  keeps  dark, 
—  and,  I  tell  you,  there  's  a  good  many  of  the  boarders 
would  like  to  get  into  his  chamber,  but  he  don't  seem 
to  want  'em.     Biddv  could  tell  ^omethin'  about  what 


;3:Z  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

slie  's  seen  when  she  's  been  to  put  his  room  to  rights. 
She  's  a  Paddy  'n'  a  fool,  but  she  knows  enougli  to  keep 
her  tongue  still.  All  I  know  is,  I  saw  her  crossin'  her- 
self one  day  when  she  came  out  of  that  room.  She 
looked  pale  enough,  'n'  I  heard  her  mutterin'  somethiii' 
or  other  about  the  Blessed  Virgin.  If  it  had  n't  been 
for  the  double  doors  to  that  chamber  of  his,  I  'd  have 
had  a  squint  inside  before  this ;  but,  somehow  or  other, 
it  never  seems  to  happen  that  they  're  both  open  at 
once. 

What  do  you  think  he  employs  himself  about  ?  — 
said  I. 

The  young  man  John  winked. 

I  waited  patiently  for  the  thought,  of  which  this  wink 
was  the  blossom,  to  come  to  fruit  in  words. 

I  don't  believe  in  witches,  —  said  the  young  man 
John. 

Nor  I. 

We  were  both  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 

Did  you  ever  see  the  young  girl's  drawmg-books, 

—  I  said,  presently. 

All  but  one,  —  he  answered  ;  —  she  keeps  a  lock  on 
that,  and  wcm't  show  it.  Ma'am  Allen  (the  young  rogue 
sticks  to  that  name,  in  speaking  of  the  gentleman  with 
the  (liamoiul),  Ma'am  Allen  tried  to  peek  into  it  one 
day  when  she  left  it  on  the  sideboard.  "  If  you  please," 
says  she,  —  'n'  took  it  from  liim,  'n'  gave  him  a  look 
that  made  him  curl  up  like  a  caterjjillar  on  a  hot 
shovel.  I  only  wished  he  had  n't,  and  had  jest  given 
her  a  little  stias,  for  I  'vc  been  takin'  boxin'-lessous,  'n' 


IRIS.  33 

I  've  got  a  new  way  of  counteriii'  I  want  to  try  on  to 
somebody. 

— ; —  The  end  of  all  this  was,  that  I  came  away  from 
the  young  fellow's  room,  feeling  that  there  were  two 
principal  things  that  I  had  to  live  for,  for  the  next  six  weeks 
or  six  months,  if  it  should  take  so  long.  These  were,  to 
get  a  sight  of  the  young  girl's  drawing-book,  which  I 
suspected  had  her  heart  shut  up  in  it,  and  to  get  a  look 
into  the  Little  Gentleman's  room. 

I  don't  doubt  you  think  it  rather  absurd  that  I  should 
trouble  myself  about  these  matters.  You  tell  me,  with 
some  show  of  reason,  that  all  I  shall  find  in  the  young 
girl's  book  will  be  souie  outlines  of  angels  with  immense 
eyes,  traceries  of  flowers,  rural  sketches,  and  caricatures, 
among  which  I  shall  probably  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
ray  own  features  figuring.  Very  likely.  But  I  '11  tell 
you  what  /  think  I  shall  find.  If  this  child  has  idealized 
the  strang3  little  bit  of  hunianity  over  -which  she  seems 
to  have  spread  her  wings  like  a  brooding  dove,  —  if,  in 
one  of  those  wild  vagaries  that  passionate  natures  are  so 
liable  to,  she  has  fairly  sprung  upon  him  with  her  clasp- 
ing nature,  as  the  sea-flowers  fold  about  the  first  stray 
shell-fish  that  brushes  their  outspread  tentacles,  depend 
upon  it,  I  shall  find  the  marks  of  it  in  tliis  drawing-book 
of  hers,  —  if  I  can  ever  get  a  look  at  it,  —  fairly,  of 
course,  for  I  would  not  play  tricks  to  satisfy  my  curi- 
osity. 

Then,  if  I  can  get  into  this  Little  Gentleman's  room 
under  any  fair  pretext,  I  shall,  no  doubt,  satisfy  iTiyself 
in  five  minutes  that  he  is  just  like  other  people,  and  that 
there  is  no  particular  mystery  about  him. 

2*       '        "^  c 


34-  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


YII. 


I  LOTE  to  look  at  this  "Rainbow/'  as  her  father 
used  sometimes  to  call  her,  of  ours.  HancTsome  creature 
that  she  is  in  fomis  and  colors,  fit  for  a  sea-king's  bride, 
it  is  not  her  beauty  alone  that  holds  my  eyes  upon  her. 
Let  me  tell  you  one  of  my  fancies,  and  then  you  will 
understand  the  strange  sort  of  fascination  she  has  for 
me. 

It  is  in  the  hearts  of  many  men  and  women  —  let  me  add 
children  —  that  there  is  a  Great  Secret  waiting  for  them, 
—  a  secret  of  which  they  get  hints  now  and  then,  per- 
haps oftener  in  early  than  in  later  years.  These  hints 
come  sometimes  in  dreams,  sometimes  in  sudden  start- 
ling flashes, —  second  wakings,  as  it  were,  —  awaking 
out  of  the  waking  state,  which  last  is  veiy  apt  to  be  a 
half-sleep.  I  have  many  times  stopped  short  and  held 
my  breath,  and  felt  the  blood  leaving  my  cheeks,  in  one 
of  these  sudden  clairvoyant  flashes.  Of  course  I  cannot 
tell  what  kind  of  a  secret  this  is ;  but  1  think  of  it  as  a  dis- 
closure of  certain  relations  of  our  personal  being  to  time 
and  space,  to  other  intelligence:^  to  the  procession  of  events, 
and  to  their  First  Great  Cause.  This  secret  seems  to  be 
broken  up,  as  it  were,  into  fragments,  so  that  we  find  here  a 
word  and  there  a  sylla])lc,  and  then  again  only  a  letter  of 
it ;  but  it  never  is  written  out  for  most  of  us  as  a  com])lete 
sentence,  in  this  life.  I  do  not  think  it  could  be ;  for  I 
am  disposed  to  consider  our  behefs  about  such  a  possible 
disclosure  rather  as  a  kind  of  ]u-emonition  of  an  enlarge- 
ment of  our  faculties  in  some  future  state  than  as  an  ex- 
pectation to  bo  fulfilled  for  most  of  us  in  tliis  life.     Per- 


IRIS.  35 

sons,  however,  have  fallen  hito  trances,  —  as  did  the 
Reverend  William  Tennent,  among  many  others,  —  and 
learned  some  things  wliich  they  could  not  tell  in  our  hu- 
man words. 

Now  among  tlic  visible  objects  which  hint  to  us  frag- 
ments of  this  infinite  secret  for  which  our  souls  are  wait- 
ing, the  faces  of  women  are  those  that  carry  the  most 
legible  hieroglyphics  of  the  great  mystery.  There  are 
women's  faces,  some  real,  some  ideal,  which  contain  some- 
thing in  them  that  becomes  a  positive  element  in  our  creed, 
so  direct  and  palpable  a  revelation  is  it  of  the  infinite 
purity  and  love.  I  remember  two  faces  of  women  with 
wings,  such  as  they  call  angels,  of  Fra  Angehco,  —  and 
I  just  now  came  across  a  print  of  Raphael's  Santa  Apol- 
lina,  with  somethmg  of  the  same  quality,  —  which  I  was 
sure  had  their  prototypes  in  the  world  above  ours.  No 
wonder  the  Cathohcs  pay  their  vows  to  the  Queen  of 
Heaven !  The  unpoetical  side  of  Protestantism  is  that 
it  has  no  women  to  be  worshipped. 

But  mmd  you,  it  is  not  every  beautiful  face  that 
hints  the  Great  Secret  to  us,  nor  is  it  only  in  beautiful 
faces  that  we  find  traces  of  it.  Sometimes  it  looks  out 
from  a  sweet  sad  eye,  the  only  beauty  of  a  plain  counte- 
nance ;  sometmies  there  is  so  much  meaning  in  the  Kps 
of  a  woman,  not  otherwise  fascinating,  that  we  know 
they  have  a  message  for  us,  and  wait  almost  with  awe  to 
hear  their  accents.  But  this  young  girl  has  at  once  the 
beauty  of  feature  and  the  unspoken  mystery  of  ex- 
pression. Can  she  tell  me  anything  ?  Is  her  life  a 
complement  of  mine,  with  the  missing  element  in  it 
which   I   have   l)ccn  groping   after  through    so    many 


y^ 


36  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

friends;hips  that  I  have  tired  of,  and  tlirniigh Hush  ! 

Is  the  door  fast  ?  Talking  loud  is  a  bad  trick  iu  these 
curious  boarding-houses. 

You  must  have  sometimes  noted  this  fact  that  I  am 
going  to  remind  you  of  and  to  use  for  a  special  illus- 
tration. Hiding  along  over  a  rocky  road,  suddenly 
the  slow  monotonous  grinding  of  the  crushing  gravel 
changes  to  a  deep  heavy  rumble.  There  is  a  great 
hollow  under  your  feet, — a  huge  unsunned  cavern.' 
Deep,  deep  beneath  you,  in  the  core  of  the  living  rock, 
it  arches  its  awful  vault,  and  far  away  it  stretches  its 
wuiding  galleries,  their  roofs  dripping  into  streams 
where  fishes  have  been  swimming  and  spawning  in  the 
dark  until  their  scales  arc  white  as  milk  and  their  eyes 
have  withered  out,  obsolete  and  useless. 

So  it  is  in  life.  We  jog  quietly  along,  meeting  the 
same  faces,  grinding  over  the  same  thoughts,  —  the 
gravel  of  the  soul's  highway,  —  now  and  then  jarred 
against  an  obstacle  we  cannot  crush,  but  must  ride  over 
or  round  as  we  best  may,  sometimes  bringing  short  up 
against  a  disappointment,  but  still  working  along  with 
the  creaking  and  rattling  and  grating  and  jerking  that 
belong  to  the  journey  of  hfe,  even  in  the  smoothest- 
rolling  vehicle.  Suddenly  we  hear  the  deep  under- 
ground reverberation  that  reveals  the  unsuspected  depth 
of  some  abyss  of  thought  or  passion  beneatli  us. 

I  wish  the  girl  would  go.  I  don't  like  to  look  at  her 
so  much,  and  yet  I  cannot  help  it.  Always  that  same 
expression  of  something  that  I  ought  to  know,  —  some- 
thing that  she  was  made  to  toll  and  I  to  hear,  —  lying 
tlierc  ready  to  fall  oil'  from  h(;r  lips,  ready  to  lea])  out  of 


( 


IRIS.  37 

her  eyes  and  make  a  saiiit  of  me,  or  a  devil  or  a  lunatic, 
or  perhaps  a  pro))liet  to  tell  the  trutli  and  be  hated  of 
men,  or  a  poet  whose  words  shall  flash  upon  the  dry 
stubble-field  of  worn-out  thoughts  and  burn  over  an  age 
of  lies  in  an  hour  of  passion. 

It  suddenly  occurs  to  me  that  I  may  have  put  you  on 
the  wrong  track.  The  Great  Secret  that  I  refer  to  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  Three  Words.  Set  your  mind  at 
ease  about  that,  —  there  are  reasons  I  could  give  you 
which  settle  all  that  matter.  I  don't  wonder,  however, 
that  you  confounded  the  Great  Secret  with  the  Three 
Words. 

I  LOVE  Tou  is  all  the  secret  that  many,  nay,  most 
women  have  to  tell.  When  that  is  said,  they  are  like 
China-crackers  on  the  moniing  of  the  fifth  of  July. 
And  just  as  that  little  patriotic  implement  is  made  with 
a  slender  train  which  leads  to  the  magazine  in  its  inte- 
rior, so  a  sharp  eye  can  almost  always  see  the  train  lead- 
ing from  a  young  girl's  eye  or  lip  to  the  "  I  love  you  " 
in  her  heart.  But  the  Three  Words  are  not  the  Great 
Secret  I  mean.  No,  women's  faces  are  only  one  of  the 
tablets  on  which  that  is  written  in  its  partial,  fragmen- 
taiy  symbols.  It  lies  deeper  than  Love,  though  very 
probably  Love  is  a  part  of  it.  Some,  I  think,  —  Words- 
worth might  be  one  of  them,  — spell  out  a  portion  of  it 
from  certain  beautiful  natural  objects,  landscapes,  flowers, 
and  others.  I  can  mention  several  poems  of  his  that 
have  shadowy  hints  which  seem  to  me  to  come  near  the 
region  where  I  think  it  lies.  I  have  known  two  persons 
who  pursued  it  with  the  passion  of  the  old  alchemists, 
—  all  wrong  evidently,  but  infatuated,  and  never  giving 


38  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

up  the  daily  search  for  it'  until  they  got  tremulous  and 
feeble,  and  their  dreams  chauged  to  visions  of  things 
that  ran  and  crawled  about  their  floor  and  ceilings,  and 
so  they  died.     The  vulgar  called  them  druukards. 

I  told  you  that  I  would  let  you  know  the  mystery  of 
the  effect  this  young  girl's  face  produces  on  me.  It  is 
akin  to  those  influences  a  friend  of  mine  has  described, 
you  may  remember,  as  coming  from  certain  voices.  I 
cannot  translate  it  into  words,  —  only  into  feelings ; 
and  these  1  have  attempted  to  shadow  by  showing  that 
lier  face  hinted  that  revelation  of  something  we  are  close 
to  knowing,  which  all  imaginative  persons  are  looking 
for  either  in  this  world  or  on  the  very  threshold  of  the 
next. 

This  young  girl,  about  whom  I  have  talked  so  unin- 
telligibly, is  the  unconscious  centre  of  attraction  to  the 
whole  solar  system  of  our  breakfast-table.  The  Little 
Gentleman  leans  towards  her,  and  she  again  seems  to  be 
swayed  as  by  some  invisible  gentle  force  towards  him. 
That  slight  inclination  of  two  persons  with  a  strong  af- 
finity towards  each  other,  throwing  them  a  little  out  of 
plumb  when  they  sit  side  by  side,  is  a  physical  fact  I 
have  often  noticed.  Then  there  is  a  tendency  in  all  the 
men's  eyes  to  converge  on  her;  and  I  do  firmly  believe, 
that,  if  all  their  chairs  were  examined,  they  would  be 
found  a  little  obliquely  placed,  so  as  to  favor  the  direc- 
tion in  which  their  occupants  love  to  look. 

That  bland,  quiet  old  gentleman,  of  whom  I  have 
spoken  as  sitting  o])posite  to  me,  is  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  Slie  brouglit  down  some  mignonette  one  mornhig, 
whicli  she  lii'.d  grown  in  her  cliainl)cr.     She  gave  a  sprig 


mis.  39 

to  licr  little  neighbor,  and  one  to  the  landlady,  and  sent 
another  by  the  hand  of  Bridget  to  this  old  gentleman. 

Sarvant,    Ma'am  !     Much  obleeged,  —  he   said, 

and  put  it  gallantly  in  his  buttonhole.  After  breakfast 
he  must  see  some  of  her  drawings.  Very  fine  perform- 
ances, —  very  fine  !  —  truly  elegant  productions,  —  truly 
elegant !  —  Had  seen  Miss  Linley's  needlework  in  Lou- 
don, in  the  year  (eighteen  hundred  and  Httle  or  nothing, 
I  think  he  said),  —  patronized  by  the  nobility  and  g:^n- 
try,  and  Her  Majesty,  —  elegant,  truly  elegant  produc- 
tions, very  fine  performances ;  these  drawings  reminded 
him  of  them;  —  wonderful  resemblance  to  Nature;  an 
extraordinary  art,  painting ;  Mr.  Copley  made  some  very 
fine  pictures  that  he  remembered  seeing  when  he  was  a 
boy.  Used  to  remember  some  lines  about  a  portrait 
written  by  Mr.  Cowpe*-,  beginning,  — 

"  0  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  pass'd 
With  me  but  i-oughly  siuce  I  heard  thee  last." 

And  with  this  the  old  gentleman  fell  to  thinking  about  a 
dead  mother  of  his  that  he  remembered  ever  so  much 
younger  than  he  now  was,  and  looking,  not  as  h's 
mother,  but  as  his  daughter  should  look.  The  dead 
young  mother  was  looking  at  the  old  man,  her  child,  as 
she  used  to  look  at  him  so  many,  many  years  ago.  He 
stood  still  as  if  in  a  waking  dream,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
drawings  till  their  outlines  grew  indisthict  and  they  ran 
into  each  other,  and  a  pale,  sweet  face  shaped  itself  out 
of  the  glimmering  light  through  which  he  saw  them. 

How  many  drawing-books  have  you  filled,  —  I  said,  — 
since  you  began  to  take  lessons  ? This  was  the  first. 


40  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

—  she  answered,  —  since  she  was  here ;  and  it  was  not 
full,  but  there  were  many  separate  sheets  of  large  size 
she  had  covered  with  drawings. 

I  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  before  us.  Aca- 
demic studies,  prhicipally  of  the  human  figure.  Heads 
of  sibyls,  prophets,  and  so  forth.  Limbs  from  statues. 
Hands  and  feet  from  Nature.  What  a  superb  drawing 
of  an  arm  !  I  don't  remember  it  among  the  figures  from 
Michel  Angelo,  which  seem  to  have  been  her  patterns 
mainly.  From  Nature,  I  think,  or  after  a  cast  from  Na- 
ture. —  Oh ! 

Your  smaller  studies  are  in  this,  I  suppose,  —  I 

said,  taking  up  the  drawing-book  with  a  lock  on  it. 

Yes,  —  she  said. 1  should  like  to  see  her  style  of 

working  on  a  small  scale. There  was  nothing  in  it 

worth  showing,  —  she  said ;  and  presently  I  saw  her  try 
the  lock,  which  proved  to  be  fast.  We  arc  all  carica- 
tured in  it,  I  have  n't  the  least  doubt.  I  think,  though, 
I  could  tell  by  her  way  of  dealing  with  us  what  her 
fancies  were  about  us  boarders.  Some  of  them  act  as  if 
they  were  bcwitclied  with  her,  but  she  does  not  seem  to 
notice  it  mncli.  Her  tlioughts  seem  to  be  on  her  little 
noiglibor  more  than  on  anyl)()dy  else.  The  young  fellow 
John  ap])('ars  to  stand  second  in  licr  good  graces.  I 
think  he  lias  once  or  twice  sent  her  what  the  landlady's 
daughter  calls  bo-kays  of  fiowers, — somebody  has,  at 
any  rate.  —  I  saw  a  book  she  had,  which  must  have  come 
from  the  divinity-student.  It  had  a  dreary  title-page, 
which  she  had  enlivened  with  a  fancy  })orfrait  of  the  au- 
thor,—  n  face  IVom  memory,  a|)pareiitly,  —  one  of  those 
faces  that  small  chihli-en  loathe  without  knowing  why, 


IRIS.  41 

and  which  give  them  that  inward  disgust  for  licavcn  so 
many  of  the  little  wretches  betray,  when  they  hear  tliat 
these  are  "  good  men,"  and  tliat  heaven  is  full  of  such.  — 
The  gentleman  with  the  diamond  —  the  Koh-i-noor,  so 
called  by  us  —  was  not  encouraged,  I  think,  by  the  re- 
ception of  his  pajcket  of  perfumed  soap.  He  pulls  his 
purple  mustache  and  looks  appreciatingly  at  Iris,  who  ^ 
never  sees  him  as  it  should  seem.  The  young  Mary- 
lander,  who  I  thought  would  have  been  in  love  with  her 
before  tliis  time,  sometimes  looks  from  his  corner  across 
the  long  diagonal  of  the  table,  as  much  as  to  say,  I 
wish  you  were  up  here  by  me,  or  I  were  down  there  by 
you,  —  w^hich  would,  perhaps,  be  a  more  natural  arrange- 
ment than  the  present  one.  But  nothing  comes  of  all 
this,  —  and  nothing  has  come  of  my  sagacious  idea  of 
finding  out  the  girl's  fancies  by  looking  into  her  locked 
drawing  book. 

Not  to  give  up  all  the  questions  I  was  determined  to 
solve,  I  made  an  attempt  also  to  work  into  the  Little 
Gentleman's  chamber.  For  this  pui-pose,  I  kept  him  in 
conversation,  one  morning,  until  he  was  just  ready  to  go 
up  stairs,  and  then,  as  if  to  continue  the  talk,  followed 
him  as  he  toiled  back  to  his  room.  He  rested  on  the 
landing  and  faced  round  toward  me.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  eye  which  said,  Stop  there  !  So  we  finished 
our  conversation  on  the  landing.  The  next  day,  I  mus- 
tered assurance  enough  to  knock  at  his  door,  having  a 
pretext  ready.  —  No  answer.  —  Knock  again.  A  door, 
as  if  of  a  cabinet,  was  shut  softly  and  locked,  and  pres- 
ently I  heard  the .  peculiar  dead  beat  of  his  thick-soled, 
misshapen  boots.     The  bolts  and  the  lock  of  the  inner 


4^  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

door  Were  unfasteued,  —  with  iimiecessary  noise,  1 
tliouglit,  —  and  lie  came  into  the  passage.  He  pulled 
the  inner  door  after  him  and  opened  the  outer  one  at 
which  I  stood.  He  had  on  a  flowered  silk  dressing- 
gown,  such  as  "  Mr.  Copley  "  used  to  paint  his  old-fash- 
ioned merchant-princes  in ;  and  a  quaint -looking  key  in 
his  hand.  Our  conversation  was  short,  but  long  enough 
to  convmce  me  that  the  Little  Gentleman  did  not  want 
my  company  in  his  chamber,  and  did  not  mean  to  have 
it. 

I  have  been  making  a  great  fuss  about  what  is  no 
mystery  at  all,  —  a  school-girl's  secrets  and  a  whimsical 
man's  habits.  I  mean  to  give  up  such  nonsense  and 
mind  my  own  business.  —  Hark  !  What  the  dense  is 
that  odd  noise  in  his  chamber? 


YIII. 

If  Iris  does  not  love  this  Little  Gentleman,  what 

does  love  look  like  when  one  sees  it  ?  She  follows  him 
with  her  eyes,  she  leans  over  toward  him  when  he  speaks, 
her  face  changes  with  the  changes  of  his  speech,  so  that 
one  might  think  it  was  with  her  as  with  Christabel,  — 

That  all  her  features  were  resigned 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind. 

But  she  never  looks  at  him  with  such  intensity  of  devo- 
tion as  when  he  says  anything  about  the  soul  and  the 
soul's  atmosphere,  religion. 

Women  are  twice  as  religious  as  men  ;  —  all  the  "^^orld 
knows  that.     Whether  they  arc  any  hotter,  in  the  eyes 


IRIS.  4^3 

of  Absolute  Justice,  might  be  questioued ;  for  the  addi- 
tional religious  element  supplied  by  sex  hardly  seems  to 
be  a  matter  of  praise  or  blame.  But  in  all  common  as- 
pects they  are  so  much  above  us  that  we  get  most  of 
our  religion  from  them,  —  from  their  teachings,  from 
their  example,  —  above  all,  from  their  pure  affections. 

Now  this  poor  little  Iris  had  been  talked  to  strangely 
in  her  childhood.  Especially  she  had  been  told  that  she 
hated  all  good  thhigs,  — which  every  sensible  parent 
knows  well  enough  is  not  true  of  a  great  many  children, 
to  say  the  least.  I  have  sometimes  questioned  whether 
many  libels  on  human  nature  had  not  been  a  natural 
consequence  of  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy,  wliich  was 
enforced  for  so  long  a  period. 

The  child  had  met  this  and  some  other  equally  en- 
couragmg  statements  as  to  her  spiritual  conditions, 
early  in  life,  and  fought  the  battle  of  spiritual  indepen- 
dence prematurely,  as  many  children  do.  If  all  she  did 
was  hateful  to  God,  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  ap- 
proving or  else  the  disapproving  conscience,  when  she 
had  done  "  right  "  or  "wrong  "  ?  No  "  shoulder-striker" 
hits  out  straighter  than  a  child  with  its  logic.  Why,  I 
can  remember  lying  in  my  bed  in  the  nursery  and  set- 
thng  questions  which  all  that  I  have  heard  since  and 
got  out  of  books  has  never  been  able  to  raise  again. 
If  a  child  does  not  assert  itself  in  this  way  in  good  sea- 
son, it  becomes  just  what  its  parents  or  teachers  were, 
and  is  no  better  than  a  plaster  image.  —  How  old  was  I 
at  the  time?  —  I  suppose  about  5823  years  old,  —  that 
is,  counting  from  Archbisliop  Usher's  date  of  the  Crea- 
tion, and  adding  the  life  of  the  race,  whose  accumulated 


44  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

intelligence  is  a  part  of  my  inheritance,  to  my  own.  A 
good  deal  older  than  Plato,  you  see,  and  much  more 
experienced  than  my  Lord  Bacon  and  most  of  the 
world's  teachers.  —  Old  books,  as  you  well  know,  are 
books  of  the  world's  youth,  and  new  books  are  fruits 
of  its  age.  How  many  of  all  these  ancient  folios  round 
me  are  like  so  many  old  cupels  !  The  gold  has  passed 
out  of  them  long  ago,  but  their  pores  are  full  of  the 
dross  with  which  it  Mas  mingled. 

And  so  Iris  —  having  thrown  off  that  first  lasso,  which 
not  only  fetters,  but  cJiokes  those  whom  it  can  hold,  so 
that  they  give  themselves  up  trembling  and  breathless  to 
the  great  soul-subduer,  who  has  them  by  the  windpipe 
—  had  settled  a  brief  creed  for  herself,  in  which  love  of 
the  neighbor,  whom  we  have  seen,  was  the  first  article, 
and  love  of  the  Creator,  whom  we  have  not  seen,  grew 
out  of  this  as  its  natural  development,  being  necessarily 
second  in  order  of  time  to  the  first  unselfish  emotions 
which  we  feel  for  the  fellow-creatures  who  surround  us 
in  our  early  years. 

The  child  must  have  some  place  of  worship.  What 
would  a  young  girl  be  who  never  mingled  her  voice  with 
the  songs  and  prayers  that  rose  all  around  her  with 
every  returning  day  of  rest  ?  And  Iris  was  free  to 
choose.  Sometimes  one  and  sometimes  another  would 
ofier  to  carry  her  to  this  or  that  place  of  worship ;  and 
when  the  doors  were  hospitably  opened,  she  would  often 
go  meekly  in  by  herself.  It  was  a  curious  fact,  that 
two  clmrclios  as  remote  from  eacli  oilier  in  doctrine  as 
could  well  be  divided  iier  afi'i'dious. 

The  Churcli  of  Saint  rolycaij)  had  very  much  the  look 


IRIS.  45 

of  a  Roman  Catlu/lic  chapel.  I  do  not  wisli  to  run  tlie 
risk  of  giving  names  to  the  ecclesiastical  furniture  which 
gave  it  such  a  Romish  aspect ;  but  there  were  pictures, 
and  inscriptions  in  antiquated  characters,  and  there  were 
reading-stands,  and  flowers  on  the  altar,  and  other  ele- 
gant arrangements.  Then  there  were  boys  to  sing 
alternately  in  choirs  responsive  to  each  other,  and 
there  was  much  bowing,  with  very  loud  responding, 
and  a  long  service  and  a  short  sermon,  and  a  bag,  such 
as  Judas  used  to  hold  in  the  old  pictures,  was  carried 
round  to  receive  contributions.  Ever^-thmg  was  done 
not  only  "decently  and  in  order,"  but,  perhaps  one 
might  say,  with  a  certain  air  of  magnifying  their  office 
on  the  part  of  the  dignified  clergymen,  often  two  or 
three  in  number.  The  music  and  the  free  welcome  were 
grateful  to  Iris,  and  she  forgot  her  prejudices  at  the 
door  of  the  chapel.  For  this  was  a  church  with  open 
doors,  with  seats  for  all  classes  and  all  colors  alike,  —  a 
church  of  zealous  worshippers  after  their  faith,  of  chari- 
table and  serviceable  men  and  women,  one  that  took 
carg  of  its  children  and  never  forgot  its  poor,  and  whose 
people  were  much  more  occupied  in  looking  out  for 
their  own  souls  than  in  attacking  the  faith  of  their 
neighbors.  In  its  mode  of  worship  there  was  a  union 
of  two  qualities, — the  taste  and  refinement,  which  the 
educated  require  just  as  much  in  their  clmrchcs  as 
elsewhere,  and  the  air  of  stateliness,  almost  of  pomp, 
which  impresses  the  common  worshipper,  and  is  often 
not  without  its  effect  upon  those  who  think  they  hold 
outward  forms  as  of  little  value.  Under  the  half-Ro- 
mish aspect  of  the  Church  of  Saint  Polycarp,  the  young 


46  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

girl  found  a  devout  and  loving  and  singularly  cheerful 
religious  spirit.  The  artistic  sense,  which  betrayed  it- 
self in  the  dramatic  proprieties  of  its  ritual,  harmonized 
with  her  taste.  The  mingled  murmur  of  the  loud  re- 
sponses, in  those  rhythmic  phrases,  so  simple,  yet  so 
fervent,  almost  as  if  every  tenth  heart-beat,  instead  of 
its  dull  tic-tac^  articulated  itself  as  "  Good  Lord,  deliver 
us  !  "  —  the  sweet  alternation  of  the  two  choirs,  as  their 
holy  song  floated  from  side  to  side,  —  the  keen  young 
voices  rising  like  a  flight  of  singing-birds  that  passes 
from  one  grove  to  another,  carrying  its  music  with  it 
back  and  forward,  —  why  should  she  not  love  these 
gracious  outward  signs  of  those  inner  harmonies  which 
none  could  deny  made  beautiful  the  lives  of  many  of  her 
fellow-worshippers  in  the  humble,  yet  not  inelegant 
Chapel  of  Saint  Polycarp  ? 

Tlie  young  Marylandor,  who  was  born  and  bred  to  that 
mode  of  worship,  had  introduced  her  to  the  chapel,  far 
which  he  did  the  honors  for  such  of  our  boarders  as  were 
not  othei-wise  provided  for.  I  saw  them  looking  over 
the  same  prayer-book  one  Sunday,  and  I  could  not  iiclp 
thinking  that  two  such  young  and  handsome  persons 
could  hardly  worsliip  together  in  safety  for  a  great  Avliile. 
But  they  seemed  to  mind  nothing  but  their  prayer-book. 
By  and  by  the  silken  bag  was  handed  round.  —  I  don't 
believe  she  will ;  —  so  awkward,  you  know ;  —  besides,  ehc 
only  came  by  invitation.  There  she  is,  with  her  hand  in 
her  pocket,  though,  —  and  sure  enough,  her  little  bit  of 
silver  tinkled  as  it  struck  the  coin  beneath.  God  bless 
licr !  she  has  n't  much  to  give  ;  but  her  eye  glistens  when 
she  gives  it,  and  that  is  all  Heaven  asks.  — That  Mas  the 


IRIS.  47 

first  time  I  noticed  tliese  young  people  togetlicr,  and  I 
am  sure  they  behaved  with  the  most  charming  propriety, 
—  in  fact,  there  was  one  of  our  silent  lady-boarders  with 
them,  whose  eyes  would  have  kept  Cupid  and  Psyche  to 
their  good  behavior.  A  day  or  two  after  tliis  I  noticed 
that  the  young  gentleman  had  left  his  seat,  which  you 
may  remember  was  at  the  corner  diagonal  to  that  of  Iris, 
so  that  they  have  been  as  far  removed  from  each  other 
as  they  could  be  at  the  table.  His  new  seat  is  three  or 
four  places  farther  down  the  table.  Of  course  I  made  a 
romance  out  of  this,  at  once.  So  stupid  not  to  see  it ! 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  —  Did  you  speak,  Madam  ? 
I  beg  your  pardon.     (To  my  lady-reader.) 

I  never  saw  anything  like  the  tenderness  with  which 
this  young  girl  treats  her  little  deformed  neighbor.  If 
he  were  in  the  way  of  going  to  church,  I  know  she 
would  follow  bim.  But  his  worship,  if  any,  is  not  with 
the  thi-ong  of  men  and  women  and  staring  children. 

IX. 

These  young  girls  that  live  in  boarding-houses  can  do 
pretty  much  as  they  will.  The  female  gendarmes  are  off 
guard  occasionally.  The  sitting-room  has  its  solitary 
moments,  when  any  two  boarders  who  wish  to  meet  may 
come  together  accidentally  {accidentally,  I  said.  Madam, 
and  I  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  italicizing  the 
word)  and  discuss  the  social  or  pohtical  questions  of  the 
day,  or  any  other  subject  that  may  prove  interesting. 
Many  charming  conversations  take  place  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  or  while  one  of  the  parties  is  holding  the  latch 


48  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

of  a  door,  —  in  the  shadow  of  porticos,  and  especially  on 
those  outside  balconies  which  some  of  our  Southern  neigh- 
bors call  "  stoops,"  the  most  charming  places  hi  the  world 
whe»  the  moon  is  just  right  and  the  roses  and  honey- 
suckles are  in  full  blow,  —  as  we  used  to  think  in  eigh- 
teen hundred  and  never  mention  it. 

On  such  a  balcony  or  "  stoop,"  one  evening,  I  walked 
with  Iris.  We  were  on  pretty  good  terms  now,  and  I 
had  coaxed  her  arm  under  mine,  —  my  left  arm,  of  course. 
That  leaves  one's  right  arm  free  to  defend  the  lovely  crea- 
ture, if  the  rival  —  odious  wretch  !  —  attempt  to  ravish 
her  from  your  side.  Likewise  if  one's  heart  should  hap- 
pen to  beat  a  little,  its  mute  language  Avill  not  be  without 
its  meaning,  as  you  will  perceive  when  the  arm  you  hold 
begins  to  tremble,  —  a  circumstance  like  to  occur,  if  you 
happen  to  be  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  and  you  two 
have  the  "  stoop  "  to  yourselves. 

We  had  it  to  ourselves  that  evening.  The  Koh-i-noor, 
as  we  called  him,  was  in  a  corner  with  our  landlady's 
daughter.  The  young  fellow  John  was  smoking  out  in 
the  yard.  The  gendarme  was  afraid  of  the  evening  ah-, 
and  kept  inside.  The  young  Marylander  came  to  the 
door,  looked  out  and  saw  us  walking  together,  gave  his 
hat  a  pull  over  liis  forehead  and  stalked  oiF.  I  felt  a 
sliglit  spasm,  as  it  w^rc,  hi  the  arm  I  held,  and  saw  the 
girl's  head  turn  over  her  shoulder  for  a  second.  What  a 
kind  creature  this  is  !  She  has  no  special  interest  in  this 
youth,  but  she  does  not  like  to  sec  a  young  fellow  going 
off  because  lie  feels  as  if  he  were  not  wanted. 

She  liad  her  locked  drawhig-book  under  her  arm. — 
Let  me  take  l!,  —  1  said. 


IRIS.  49 

She  gave  it  to  mo  to  carry. 

This  is  full  of  caricatures  of  all  of  us,  I  am  sure,  — 
said  I. 

She  laughed,  and  said,  —  No,  —  not  all  of  you. 

I  was  there,  of  course  ? 

Why,  no, — she  had  never  taken  so  much  pains  with  me. 

Then  she  would  let  me  see  the  inside  of  it  ? 

She  would  think  of  it. 

Just  as  we  parted,  she  took  a  little  key  from  her  pocket 
and  handed  it  to  me.  —  Tiiis  unlocks  my  naughty  book, 
—  she  said,  —  you  shall  see  it.     I  am  not  afraid  of  you. 

I  don't  know  whetlier  the  last  words  exactly  pleased 
me.  At  any  rate,  I  took  the  book  and  hurried  with  it  to 
my  room.  I  opened  it,  and  saw,  in  a  few  glances,  that  I 
held  the  heart  of  Iris  in  my  hand. 

IRIS,    HER   BOOK. 

I  pray  thee  by  the'soul  of  her  that  bore  thee. 
By  thine  own  sister's  spirit  I  implore  thee, 
Deal  gently  with  the  leaves  that  lie  before  thee  ! 

For  Iris  had  no  mother  to  infold  ber. 

Nor  ever  leaned  upon  a  sister's  shoulder, 

Telling  the  twilight  thoughts  that  Nature  told  her. 

She  had  not  learned  the  mystery  of  awaking 
Those  chordcd  keys  that  soothe  a  sorrow's  aching. 
Giving  the  dumb  heart  voiee,  that  else  were  breaking. 

Yet  lived,  wrought,  suffered.     Lo,  the  pictured  token  ! 
"NYhy  should  her  fleeting  day-dreams  fade  unspoken. 
Like  daffodils  that  die  with  sheaths  unbroken  ? 

VOL.    MI.  3  D 


JO  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Slie  knew  not  love,  yet  lived  in  maiden  fancies,  — 

"Walked  simply  clad,  a  queen  of  liigh  romances, 

And  talked  strange  tongues  with  angels  in  her  trances. 

Twin-souled  she  seemed,  a  twofold  nature  Avearing,  — 

Sometimes  a  flashing  falcon  in  her  daring, 

Then  a  poor  matclcss  dove  that  droops  despairing. 

Questioning  all  things  :  AYliy  her  Lord  had  sent  her  ? 
What  were  these  torturing  gifts,  and  wherefore  lent  her  ? 
Scornful  as  spirit  fallen,  its  own  tormentor. 

And  then  all  tears  and  anguish  :   Queen  of  Heaven, 
Sweet  Saints,  and  Thou  by  mortal  sorrows  riven. 
Save  me  !  O,  save  me  !     Shall  I  die  forgiven  ? 

And  then All,  God  !     But  nay,  it  little  matters  : 

Look  at  the  wasted  seeds  that  autumn  scatters, 
The  myriad  germs  that  Nature  shapes  and  shatters  ! 

If  she  had Well !    She  longed,  and  knew  not  wherefore 

Had  the  world  nothing  she  might  live  to  care  for  ? 
No  second  self  to  say  her  evening  prayer  for? 

She  knew  the  marble  shapes  that  set  men  dreaming, 
Yet  with  her  shoulders  bare  and  tresses  streaming 
Showed  not  unlovely  to  her  simple  seeming. 

Vain  ?     Let  it  be  so  !     Nature  was  her  teacher. 

What  if  a  lonely  and  luisistcred  creature 

Loved  her  own  harmless  gift  of  pleasing  feature. 

Saying,  uusaddciicd, — This  shall  soon  be  faded. 
And  donl)li'-huid  the  shining  tresses  braided. 
And  all  the  4>nnlight  of  llic  morning  shaded? 


IRIS.  51 

This  her  poor  book  is  fuJl  of  saddest  follies. 

Of  tearful  smiles  and  lautrhiiig  melancholies. 
With  summer  roses  twiued  and  wintry  hollies. 

In  the  strange  crossiug  of  uncei-tain  chances, 
Somewhere,  beneath  some  maiden's  tear-dimmed  glances 
May  fail  her  little  book  of  di'cams  and  fancies. 

Sweet  sister !     Iris,  who  shall  never  name  thee, 
Trembling  for  fear  her  open  heart  may  shame  thee, 
Speaks  from  this  vision-haunted  page  to  claim  thee. 

Spare  her,  I  pray  tlice !     If  the  maid  is  sleeping. 
Peace  with  her  !  she  has  had  her  hour  of  weeping. 
No  more !     She  leaves  her  memory  in  thy  keeping. 

These  verses  were  Tvritteii  in  the  first  leaves  of  the 
locked  volume.  As  I  turned  the  pages,  I  hesitated  for 
a  moment.  Is  it  quite  fair  to  take  advantage  of-  a  gen- 
erous, trusting  impulse  to  read  the  unsunned  depths  of 
a  young  girl's  nature,  which  I  can  look  tlirougli,  as  the 
balloon-voyagers  tell  us  they  see  from  their  hanging- 
baskets  through  the  ■  translucent  waters  which  the  keen- 
est eye  of  such  as  sail  over  them  in  ships  might  strive 
to  pierce  in  vain  ?  TThy  has  the  child  trusted  me  with 
such  artless  confessions,  —  self-revelations,  which  might 
be  whispered  by  trembling  lips,  under  the  veil  of  twihglit, 
in  sacred  confessionals,  but  which  I  cannot  look  at  in 
the  light  of  day  without  a  feeling  of  wronging  a  sacred 
confidence  ? 

To  all  this  the  answer  seemed  plain  enough  after  a 
little  thought.     Slie  did  not  know  how  fearfully  she  had 


52  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

disclosed  lierself;  she  was  too  profoundly  mnocent.  Her 
soul  was  no  more  ashamed  than  the  fair  shapes  that 
walked  in  Eden  without  a  thought  of  over-liberal  love- 
liness. Having  nobody  to  tell  her  story  to,  —  having,  as 
she  said  in  her  verses,  no  musical  instrument  to  laugh 
and  cry  with  her,  —  notlmig,  in  short,  but  i^ie  language 
of  pen  and  pencil,  —  all  the  veiniugs  of  her  nature  were 
impressed  on  these  pages,  as  those  of  a  fresh  leaf  are 
transferred  to  the  blank  sheets  which  enclose  it.  It  was 
the  same  thing  which  I  remember  seeing  beautifully 
shown  in  a  child  of  some  four  or  five  years  we  had  one 
day  at  our  boarding-house.  This  child  was  a  deaf-mute. 
But  its  soul  had  the  mncr  sense  that  answers  to  hearuig, 
and  the  shaping  capacity  which  through  natural  organs 
realizes  itself  in  words.  Only  it  had  to  talk  with  its  face 
alone ;  and  such  speaking  eyes,  such  rapid  alternations 
of  feeling  and  shifting  expressions  of  thought  as  flitted 
over  its  lace,  1  have  never  seen  in  any  other  human 
countenance. 

I  found  the  soul  of  Iris  in  the  book  that  lay  open  be- 
fore me.  Sometimes  it  was  a  poem  that  held  it,  some- 
times a  drawing,  —  angel,  arabesque,  caricature,  or  a 
mere  hieroglyphic  symbol  of  which  I  could  nuikc  noth- 
ing. A  rag  of  cloud  on  one  page,  as  I  remember,  with 
a  streak  of  red  zigzagging  out  of  it  across  the  paper  as 
naturally  as  a  crack  runs  through  a  china  bowl.  On 
the  next  page  a  dead  bird,  —  some  little  favorite,  I  sup- 
pose ;  for  it  was  worked  out  with  a  special  love,  and  I 
saw  on  the  leaf  tliat  sign  with  which  once  or  twice  in  my 
life  I  have  luid  a  letter  scaled,  —  a  round  spot  where 
llic,  paper  is  sliglitly  cornigated,  and,  if  there  is  writing 


IRIS.  53 

there,  the  letters  are  somewhat  faint  and  blurred.  Most 
of  the  pages  were  surrounded  with  emblematic  traceries. 
It  was  strange  to  me  at  first  to  see  how  often  she  intro- 
duced those  homelier  wild-llowers  which  we  call  weeds, 
—  for  it  seemed  there  was  none  of  them  too  humble  for 
her  to  love,  and  none  too  little  cared  for  by  Nature  to 
be  without  its  beauty  for  her  artist  eye  and  pencil.  By 
the  side  of  the  garden-flowers,  —  of  Spring's  curled 
darlmgs,  the  hyacinths,  of  rosebuds,  dear  to  sketching 
maidens,  of  flower-de-luces  and  morning-glories, — nay, 
oftener  than  these,  and  more  tenderly  caressed  by  the 
colored  brush  that  rendered  them,  —  were  those  com- 
mon growths  wliich  fling  themselves  to  be  crushed  under 
our  feet  and  our  wheels,  making  thems'elves  so  cheap  in 
this  perpetual  martyrdom  that  we  forget  each  of  them  is 
a  ray  of  the  Divine  beauty. 

Yellow  japanned  buttercups  and  star-disked  dande- 
lions, —  just  as  we  see  them  lying  in  the  grass,  like 
sparks  that  have  leaped  from  the  kindling  sun  of  sum- 
mer; the  profuse  daisy-like  flower  wliich  whitens  the 
fields,  to  the  gi-eat  disgust  of  liberal  shepherds,  yet 
seems  fair  to  loving  eyes,  with  its  button-like  mound  of 
gold  set  round  with  milk-white  rays  ;  the  tall-stemmed 
succory,  setting  its  pale  blue  flowers  aflame,  one  after 
another,  sparingly,  as  the  lights  are  kindled  in  the  can- 
delabra of  decayuig  palaces  where  the  heirs  of  dethroned 
monarchs  are  dying  out ;  the  red  and  white  clovers ; 
the  broad,  flat  leaves  of  the  plantain,  — "  the  wliite 
man's  foot,"  as  the  Indians  called  it,  —  the  wiry,  jointed 
stems  of  that  iron  creeping  plant  which  we  call  "  knot- 
grass'"'  and  which  loves  its  life  so  dearly  that  it  is  next  to 


54  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

impossible  to  murder  it  with  a  hoe^  as  it  clings  to  tlie 
cracks  of  the  pavement ;  —  all  these  plants,  and  many 
more,  she  wove  into  her  fanciful  garlands  and  borders. 

—  On  one  of  the  pages  were  some  musical  notes.  I 
touched  them  from  curiosity  on  a  piano  belonging  to  one 
of  our  boarders.  Strange  !  There  arc  passages  that  I 
have  heard  before,  plaintive,  full  of  some  hidden  mean- 
ing, as  if  they  were  gasping  for  words  to  interpret  them. 
She  must  have  heard  the  strains  that  have  so  excited  my 
curiosity,  coming  from  my  neighbor's  chamber.  The 
illuminated  border  she  had  traced  round  the  page  that 
held  these  notes  took  the  place  of  the  words  they  seemed 
to  be  aching  for.  Above,  a  long  monotonous  sweep  of 
waves,  leaden-hue'd,  anxious  and  jaded  and  sullen,  if  you 
can  imagine  such  an  expression  in  water.  On  one  side 
an  Alphic  needle,  as  it  were,  of  black  basalt,  girdled 
with  snow.  On  the  other  a  threaded  waterfall.  The 
red  morning-tint  tliat  shone  in  the  drops  had  a  strange 
look,  —  one  would  say  the  cliff  was  bleeding  ;  —  perhaps 
she  did  not  mean  it.  Below,  a  stretch  of  sand,  and  a 
solitary  bird  of  prey,  with  his  Avings  spread  over  some 
unseen  object.  —  And  on  the  very  next  page  a  procession 
wound  along,  after  the  fashion  of  that  on  the  title-page 
of  Fuller's  "  Holy  War,"  in  which  I  recognized  without 
difficulty  every  boarder  at  our  table  in  all  the  glory  of 
the  most  resplendent  caricature,  —  three  only  excepted, 

—  tlic  Little  Gentleman,  myself,  and,  one  other. 

I  confess  I  did  expect  to  see  something  that  would  re- 
mind nie  of  tlie  girl's  little  delonncd  neighbor,  if  not 
portraits  of  him.  —  There  is  a  left  arm  again,  though; 

—  no,  —  that  is  from  the  "Fighting  Gladiator,"  —  the 


lEIS.  00 

" Jetine  Heros  combaitant"  of  the  Louvre;  —  tliere  is 
the  broad  ring  of  the  shield.  From  a  cast,  doubtless. 
[The  separate  casts  of  the  "Gladiator's"  arm  look  im- 
mense ;  but  in  its  place  the  limb  looks  light,  almost 
slender,  —  such  is  the  perfection  of  that  miraculous 
marble.  I  never  felt  as  if  I  touched  the  life  of  the  old 
Greeks  until  I  looked  on  that  statue.]  —  Here  is  some- 
thmg  very  odd,  to  be  sure.  An  Eden  of  all  the  humped 
and  crooked  creatures !  What  could  have  been  in  her 
head  when  she  worked  out  such  a  fantasy  ?  She  has 
contrived  to  give  them  all  beauty  or  dignity  or  melan- 
choly grace.  A  Bactrian  camel  lying  under  a  palm.  A 
dromedary  flashing  up  the  sands,  —  spray  of  the  dry 
ocean  sailed  by  the  "ship  of  the  desert."  A  herd  of 
buffaloes,  uncouth,  shaggy -maned,  heavy  in  the  forehand, 
light  in  the  hind-quarter.  [The  buflPalo  is  the  lion  of  the 
ruminants.]  And  there  is  a  Norman  horse,  with  his 
huge,  rough  collar,  echohig,  as  it  were,  the  natural  form 
of  the  other  beast.  And  here  are  twisted  serpents  ;  and 
stately  swans,  with  answermg  curves  in  their  bowed 
necks,  as  if  they  had  snake's  blood  under  their  white 
feathers  ;  and  grave,  high -shouldered  herons,  standing 
on  one  foot  like  cripples,  and  looking  at  life  round  them 
with  the  cold  stare  of  monumental  effigies.  —  A  very  odd 
page  indeed  !  Not  a  creature  in  it  without  a  curve  or  a 
twist,  and  not  one  of  them  a  mean  figure  to  look  at. 
You  can  make  your  own  comment ;  I  am  fanciful,  you 
know.  I  believe  she  is  trying  to  idealize  what  we  vul- 
garly call  deformity,  which  she  strives  to  look  at  in  the 
light  of  one  of  Nature's  eccentric  curves,  balongmg  to 
her  system  of  beauty,  as  the  hyperbola  and  parabola  be- 


5b  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

long  to  the  conic  sections,  though  we  cannot  see  them  as 
symmetrical  and  entire  figures,  like  the  circle  and  elli])se. 
At  any  rate,  I  cannot  help  referring  this  paradise  of 
twisted  spines  to  some  idea  floating  in  her  head  con- 
nected with  her  friend  whom  Nature  has  warped  in  the 
moulding.  —  That  is  nothing  to  another  transcendental 
fancy  of  mine.  I  believe  her  soul  thinks  itself  in  his 
little  crooked  body  at  times,  —  if  it  does  not  really  get 
freed  or  half  freed  from  her  own.  Did  you  ever  see  a 
case  of  catalepsy  ?  You  know  what  I  mean,  —  tran- 
sient loss  of  sense,  will,  and  motion;  body  and  limbs 
takmg  any  position  in  which  they  are  put,  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  a  lay -figure.  She  had  been  talking  with  him 
and  listening  to  him  one  day  when  the  boarders  moved 
from  the  table  nearly  all  at  once.  But  she  sat  as  before, 
her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand,  her  amber  eyes  wide  open 
and  still.  I  went  to  her,  —  she  was  breathing  as  usual, 
and  her  heart  was  beating  naturally  enough,  —  but  she 
did  not  answer.  I  bent  her  arm;  it  was  as  i)lastic  as 
softened  wax,  and  kept  the  place  I  gave  it.  —  This  will 
never  do,  though,  —  and  I  sprinkled  a  few  drops  of 
Water  on  her  forehead.  She  started  and  looked  round.  — 
I  have  been  in  a  dream,  —  she  said  ;  —  1  feel  as  if  all  my 
strength  were  in  this  arm ;  —  give  me  your  hand  !  — 
She  took  my  right  hand  in  her  left,  which  looked  soft 
and  white  enough,  but  —  Good  Heaven !  1  believe  she 
will  crack  my  bones !  All  the  nervous  power  in  her 
body  must  have  flaslicd  through  those  muscles  ;  as  when 
a  crazy  lady  snaps  her  iron  window-ljars,  —  she  who  could 
liardly  glove  herself  when  in  her  counnon  health.  Iris 
tiinu'd  pale,  aiid  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes;  —  she  saw 


IRIS.  57 

slie  had  given  pain.  Then  she  trembled,  and  might  have 
fallen  hut  for  me  ;  —  the  poor  little  soul  had  been  in  one 
of  those  trances  that  belong  to  the  spiritual  pathology  of 
higher  natures,  mostly  those  of  women. 

To  come  back  to  this  wondrous  book  of  Iris.  Two  pages 
faced  each  other  wliich  I  took  for  symbolical  expressions  of 
two  states  of  mind.  On  the  left  hand,  a  bright  blue  sky 
washed  over  the  page,  specked  with  a  single  bird.  No 
trace  of  earth,  but  still  the  wiuged  creature  seemed  to 
be  soaring  upward  and  upward.  Facing  it,  one  of  those 
black  dungeons  such  as  Piranesi  alone  of  all  men  has  pic- 
tured. I  am  sure  she  must  have  seen  those  awful  prisons 
of  his,  out  of  which  the  Opium-Eater  got  his  nightmare 
vision,  described  by  another  as  "  cemeteries  of  departed 
greatness,  where  monstrous  and  forbidden  things  are 
crawling  and  twining  their  sluny  convolutions  among 
mouldering  bones,  broken  sculpture,  and  mutilated  in- 
scriptions." Such  a  black  dungeon  faced  the  page  that 
held  the  blue  sky  and  the  single  bird ;  at  the  bottom  of 
it  something  was  coiled,  —  what,  and  whether  meant  for 
dead  or  alive,  my  eyes  could  not  make  out. 

I  told  you  the  young  girl's  soul  was  in  this  book.  As 
I  turned  over  the  last  leaves  I  could  not  help  starting. 
There  were  all  sorts  of  faces  among  the  arabesques  which 
laughed  and  scowled  in  the  borders  that  ran  round  the 
pages.  They  had  mostly  the  outline  of  childish  or  wo- 
manly or  manly  beauty,  without  very  distinct  individual- 
ity. But  at  last  it  seemed  to  me  that  some  of  them  were 
taking  on  a  look  not  wholly  unfamiliar  to  me  ;  there  were 
features  that  did  not  seem  new. —  Can  it  be  so  ?  Was 
there  ever  such  innocence  in  a  creature  so  full  of  life  ? 
3-s 


58  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

She  tells  lier  licai-t's  secrets  as  a  tliree-years-old  cliild  be- 
trays itself  without  need  of  being  questioned  !  This  was 
no  common  miss,  such  as  are  turned  out  in  scores  from 
the  young-lady-factories,  with  parchments  warranting  them 
accomplished  and  virtuous,  —  in  case  anybody  should 
question  the  fact.  I  began  to  understand  her;  —  and 
what  is  so  charming  as  to  read  the  secret  of  a  real 
femme  incomprise  ?  —  for  such  there  are,  though  they 
are  not  the  ones  who  think  themselves  uncomprehended 
women. 

I  found  these  stanzas  in  the  book,  among  many  others. 
I  give  them  as  characterizdjig  the  tone  of  her  sadder  mo- 
ments : 

UNDER  THE   VIOLETS. 

Her  hands  are  cold  ;  licr  face  is  white  ; 
No  more  her  pulses  came  and  go ; 

Her  eyes  arc  shut  to  lilc  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow. 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone. 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes  ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Sliall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  Ihe  greenness  from  the  ground. 
And  di-op  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 


IRIS.  59 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun. 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall. 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high. 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  spring. 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky. 
Shall  gi-cet  her  -with  its  earliest  cry. 

"When,  turning  round  their  dial-track. 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass. 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black. 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass. 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies. 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ftsk,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this  :  A  tender  bud. 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow. 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 

1  locked  the  book  and  sighed  as  I  laid  it  doMH. 

The  world  is  always  ready  to  receive  talent  with  open 
arms.  Very  often  it  does  not  know  what  to  do  with 
genius.     Talent  is  a  docile  creature.     It  bows  its  head 


60  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

meekly  while  the  world  slips  the  collar  over  it.  It  backs 
into  the  shafts  like  a  lamb.  It  di-aws  its  load  cheerfully, 
and  is  patient  of  the  bit  and  of  the  whip.  But  genius  is 
always  impatient  of  its  harness ;  its  wild  blood  makes  it 
hard  to  train. 


Iris  has  told  me  that  the  Scottish  gift  of  second-sight 
runs  in  her  family,  and  that  she  is  afraid  she  has  it. 
Those  who  are  so  endowed  look  upon  a  well  man  and  see 
a  shroud  wi'apt  about  him.  According  to  the  degree  to 
which  it  covers  him,  his  death  will  be  near  or  more  re- 
mote. It  is  an  awful  faculty ;  but  science  gives  one  too 
much  like  it.  Luckily  for  our  friends,  most  of  us  who 
have  the  scientific  second-sight  school  ourselves  not  to 
betray  our  knowledge  by  word  or  look. 

Day  by  day,  as  the  Little  Gentleman  comes  to  the  ta- 
ble, it  seems  to  me  that  the  shadow  of  some  approaching 
change  falls  darker  and  darker  over  his  countenance.  Na- 
ture is  struggling  with  something,  and  I  am  afraid  she  is 
under  in  the  wrestling-match.  You  do  not  care  much, 
porliaps,  for  my  particular  conjectures  as  to  the  nature  of 
liis  dilliculty.  I  should  say,  however,  from  the  sudden 
flushes  to  wliich  he  is  subject,  and  certain  other  marks 
wliich,  as  an  expert,  I  know  how  to  interpret,  that  his 
heart  was  in  trouble  ;  but  then  he  presses  his  hand  to  the 
right  side,  as  if  there  were  the  centre  of  his  uneasiness. 

When  I  say  difficulty  about  the  heart,  I  do  not  mean 
any  of  those  sentimental  maladies  of  that  organ  which 
figure  more  largely  in  romances  than  on  the  returns 
wliich  furnish   our  Bills   of   Mortality.     1  mean  some 


IRIS.  61 

actual  change  in  tlie  organ  itself,  which  may  carry  him 
oif  by  slow  and  painful  degrees,  or  strike  him  down  with 
one  huge  pang  and  only  time  for  a  single  shriek, — as 
when  the  shot  broke  through  the  brave  Captain  Nolan's 
breast,  at  the  head  of  the  Light  Brigade  at  Balaklava, 
and  with  a  loud  cry  he  dropped  dead  from  his  saddle. 

I  thought  it  only  fair  to  say  something  of  what  I  ap- 
prehended to  some  who  were  entitled  to  be  warned.  The 
landlady's  face  fell  when  I  mentioned  my  fears. 

Poor  man !  —  she  said. —  And  will  leave  the  best  room 
empty  !  Has  n't  he  got  any  sisters  or  nieces  or  anybody 
to  see  to  his  things,  if  he  should  be  took  away  ?  Such  a 
siglit  of  cases,  full  of  everything  !  Never  thought  of  his 
failin'  so  suddiu.  A  complication  of  diseases,  she  ex- 
pected.    Liver-complaint  one  of  'em  ? 

I  must  tell  Iris  that  I  think  her  poor  friend  is  in  a 
precarious  state.     She  seems  nearer  to  him  than  anybody. 

I  did  tell  her.  Whatever  emotion  it  produced,  she 
kept  a  still  face,  except,  perhaps,  a  little  trembling  of  the 
lip.  —  Could  I  be  certain  that  there  was  any  mortal  com- 
plaint ?  —  Wliy,  no,  I  could  not  be  certain ;  but  it  looked 
alarming  to  me.  —  He  shall  have  some  of  my  life,  —  she 
said. 

I  suppose  this  to  have  been  a  fancy  of  hers,  of  a  kind 
of  magnetic  power  she  could  give  out ;  —  at  any  rate,  I 
cannot  help  thinking  she  wills  her  strength  away  from 
herself,  for  she  has  lost  vigor  and  color  from  that  day. 
I  have  sometimes  thought  he  gained  the  force  she  lost ; 
but  this  may  have  been  a  whim,  very  probably. 

One  day  slie  came  suddenly  to  me,  looking  deadly  pale. 
Her  lips  moved,  as  if  she  were  speaking ;  but  I  could  not 


62  LTTTLE    CLASSICS. 

at  first  "hear  a  ^'ord.  Her  luiir  looked  strangely,  as  if 
lifting  itself,  and  Ler  eyes  were  full  of  wild  light.  She 
sunk  upon  a  chair,  and  I  thought  was  falling  into  one  of 
her  trances.  Something  had  frozen  her  blood  with  fear ; 
I  thought,  from  what  she  said,  half  audibly,  that  she 
believed  she  had  seen  a  shrouded  figure. 

That  night,  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  I  was  sent  for  to 
see  the  Little  Gentleman,  who  was  taken  suddenly  ill. 
Bridget,  the  servant,  went  before  me  with  a  light.  The 
doors  were  both  unfastened,  and  I  found  myself  ushered, 
without  hmdrance,  into  the  dim  light  of  the  mysterious 
apartment  I  had  so  longed  to  enter 

The  house  was  deadly  still,  and  the  night- wind,  blowing 
through  an  open  window,  struck  me  as  from  a  field  of  ice, 
at  the  moment  I  passed  back  again  into  the  creaking  cor- 
ridor. As  I  turned  into  the  common  passage,  a  white 
figure,  holding  a  lamp,  stood  full  before  me.  I  thought 
at  first  it  was  one  of  those  images  made  to  stand  in  niches 
and  liold  a  liglit  in  their  hands.  But  the  ilhision  was 
momentary,  and  my  eyes  speedily  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  the  bright  flame  and  snowy  drapery  to  see  that 
the  figure  was  a  breathing  one.  It  was  Iris,  in  one  of 
Ijcr  statue-trances.  She  had  come  down,  whether  sleep- 
ing or  Avaking,  I  knew  not  at  first,  led  by  an  instinct  tliat 
told  her  she  was  wanted,  —  or,  possibly,  having  overheard 
and  interpreted  the  sound  of  our  movements, —  or,  it  may 
b(\  having  learned  from  the  servant  that  there  was  trouble 
which  might  ask  for  a  Avoman's  hand.  I  sometimes  think 
women  have  a  sixtli  sense,  which  tells  them  tiiat  otliers, 
whom  they  cannot  see  or  liear,  are  in  suffering.  How 
surely  we  lliid  them  at  the  bedside  of  the  tlviii'^!     IIow 


IRIS.  G3 

strongly  does  Nature  plead  for  them,  that  we  should 
draw  our  first  breath  iu  their  arms,  as  we  sigii  away  our 
last  upon  their  faithful  breasts  ! 

With  white.,  bare  feet,  her  hair  loosely  knotted,  dressed 
as  the  starUght  knew  her,  and  the  morning  when  she 
rose  from  slumber,  save  that  she  had  twisted  a  scarf 
round  her  long  dress,  she  stood  still  as  a  stone  before  me, 
holding  in  one  hand  a  lighted  coil  of  wax-taper,  and  in 
the  other  a  silver  goblet.  I  held  my  own  lamp  close  to 
her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  figure  of  marble,  and  she  did 
not  stir.  There  was  no  breach  of  propriety  then,  to 
scare  the  Poor  Relation  with  and  breed  scandal  out  of. 
She  had  been  "  warned  in  a  dream,"  doubtless  suggested 
by  her  waking  knowledge  and  the  sounds  which  had 
reached  her  exalted  sense.  There  was  nothing  more 
natural  than  that  she  should  have  risen  and  girdled  her 
waist,  and  lighted  her  taper,  and  found  the  silver  goblet 
with  "Ex  dono  piqnlloriim"  on  it,  from  which  she  had 
taken  her  milk  and  possets  through  all  her  childish  years, 
and  so  gone  blindly  out  to  find  her  place  at  the  bedside, 
—  a  Sister  of  Charity  without  the  cap  and  rosary ;  nay, 
unknowing  whither  her  feet  were  leading  her,  and  with 
wide,  blank  eyes  seeing  notliing  but  the  vision  that 
beckoned  her  along.  —  Well,  I  must  wake  her  from  her 
slumber  or  trance.  —  I  called  her  name,  but  she  did  not 
heed  my  voice. 

The  Devil  put  it  into  my  bead  that  I  would  kiss  one 
handsome  young  girl  before  I  died,  and  now  was  my 
chance.  She  never  would  know  it,  and  I  should  cany 
the  remembrance  of  it  with  me  into  the  grave,  and  a  rose 
perhaps  grow  out  of  my  dust,  as  a  brier  did  out  of  Lord 


64  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Lovel's,  in  memory  of  that  immortal  moment !  Would 
it  wake  lier  from  her  trance  ?  and  would  she  see  me  in 
the  flush  of  my  stolen  triumph,  and  hate  and  despise  me 
ever  after  ?  Or  should  I  carry  off  my  trophy  undetected, 
and  always  from  that  time  say  to  myself,  Avlien  I  looked 
upon  her  in  the  glory  of  youth  and  the  splendor  of  beauty, 
"  My  lips  have  touched  those  roses  and  made  their  sweet- 
ness mine  forever  "  ?  You  think  my  cheek  was  flushed, 
perhaps,  and  my  eyes  were  glittering  with  this  midnight 
flash  of  opportunity.  On  the  contrary,  I  beheve  I  was 
pale,  very  pale,  and  I  know  that  I  trembled.  Ah,  it  is 
the  pale  passions  that  arc  the  fiercest,  —  it  is  the  violence 
of  the  chill  that  gives  the  measure  of  the  fever !  The 
fighting-boy  of  our  school  always  turned  white  when  he 
went  out  to  a  pitched  battle  with  the  bully  of  some 
neighboring  village;  but  we  knew  what  his  bloodless 
checks  meant,  —  the  blood  was  all  in  his  stout  heart,  — 
he  was  a  slight  boy,  and  there  was  not  enougli  to  raddcn 
his  face  and  fill  his  heart  both  at  once. 

Perhaps  it  is  making  a  good  deal  of  a  slight  matter,  to 
tell  the  internal'  conflicts  in  the  heart  of  a  quiet  person 
something  more  than  juvenile  and  something  less  than 
senile,  as  to  whether  he  should  be  guilty  of  an  impro- 
priety, and  if  he  were,  whether  he  would  get  caught  in 
his  indiscretion.  And  yet  the  memory  of  the  kiss  that 
Margaret  of  Scotland  gave  to  Alain  Chartier  has  lasted 
four  hundred  years,  and  put  it  into  the  head  of  many  an 
ill-l'avorcd  poet,  whell)cr  Victoria  or  Eugenic  would  do 
as  niucii  by  him,  if  she  happened  to  ])ass  liiui  M'hen  he 
was  asleep.  And  liave  we  ever  forgotten  that  the  fresh 
clicek  of  the  young  John  Milton  tingled  under  the  lijis  of 


IRIS.  65 

some  liigli-bom  Italian  beauty,  wlio,  I  believe,  did  not 
think  to  leave  her  card  by  the  side  of  the  slumbering 
youth,  but  has  bequeathed  the  memory  of  her  pretty  deed 
to  all  coming  time  ?  The  sound  of  a  kiss  is  not  so  loud 
as  that  of  a  cannon,  but  its  echo  lasts  a  deal  longer. 

There  is  one  disadvantage  which  the  man  of  philo- 
sophical habits  of  mind  suffers,  as  compared  with  the 
man  of  action.  While  he  is  taking  an  enlarged  and 
rational  view  of  the  matter  before  him,  he  lets  his  chance 
slip  through  his  fingers.  Iris  woke  up,  of  her  own  ac- 
cord, before  I  had  made  up  my  mind  what  I  was  going  to 
do  about  it. 

When  I  remember  how  charmingly  she  looked,  I  don't 
blame  myself  at  all  for  being  tempted ;  but  if  I  had  been 
fool  enough  to  yield  to  the  impulse,  I  should  certainly 
have  been  ashamed  to  tell  of  it.  She  did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  it,  finding  herself  there  alone,  in  such  guise 
aud  me  staring  at  her.  She  looked  down  at  her  white 
•robe  and  bare  feet,  and  colored,  —  then  at  the  goblet  she 
held  in  her  hand,  —  then  at  the  taper ;  and  at  last  her 
thoughts  seemed  to  clear  up. 

I  know  it  all,  —  she  said.  —  He  is  going  to  die,  and  I 
must  go  and  sit  by  him.  Nobody  will  care  for  him  as  I 
shall,  and  I  have  nobody  else  to  care  for. 

I  assured  her  that  nothing  was  needed  for  him  that 
night  but  rest,  and  persuaded  her  that  the  excitement  of 
her  presence  could  only  do  harm.  Let  him  sleep,  and 
he  would  very  probably  awake  better  in  the  morning. 
There  was  nothhig  to  be  said,  for  I  spoke  with  authority ; 
and  the  young  girl  glided  away  with  noiseless  step  and 
souijht  her  own  chamber. 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


XI. 


On  my  second  visit,  I  found  Iris  sitting  by  the 

Little  Gentleman's  pillow.  To  my  disappointment,  the 
room  was  darkened.  He  did  not  like  the  light,  and 
would  have  the  shutters  kept  nearly  closed.  It  was  good 
enough  for  me  ; — what  busmess  had  I  to  be  indulging 
my  curiosity,  when  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  exercise 
such  skill  as  I  possessed  for  the  benefit  of  my  patient  ? 
There  was  not  much  to  be  said  or  done  in  such  a  case ; 
but  I  spoke  as  encouragingly  as  I  could,  as  I  think  we 
are  always  bound  to  do.  He  did  not  seem  to  pay  any 
very  anxious  attention,  but  the  poor  girl  listened  as  if 
her  own  life  and  more  than  her  own  life  were  depending 
on  the  words  I  uttered.  Slie  follow^^d  me  out  of  the 
room,  when  I  had  got  through  my  visit. 

How  long  ?  —  she  said. 

Uncertain.  Any  time;  to-day,  —  next  week,  —  next 
month,  —  I  answered.  —  One  of  those  cases  where  the 
issue  is  not  doubtful,  but  may  be  sudden  or  slow. 

The  women  of  the  house  were  kind,  as  women  always 
are  in  trouble.  But  Iris  pretended  that  nobody  could 
spare  the  time  as  well  as  she,  and  kept  lier  place,  hour 
after  hour,  until  the  landlady  insisted  that  she  'd  be  kill- 
in'  herself,  if  she  begun  at  that  rate,  'n'  haf  to  give  up, 
if  she  did  n't  want  to  be  clean  beat  out  in  less  'n  a 
week. 

At  tlic  table  we  were  graver  than  coiiiniou.  The  higli 
chair  was  set  back  against  the  wall,  and  a  gap  left  be- 
tween that  of  the  young  girl  and  her  nearest  neighbor's 
on  the  right.     Jiut  the  next  m.orning,  to  our  great  sur- 


lEis.  G7 

prise,  that  good-looking  young  Marylander  bad  very  qui- 
etly moved  his  own  chair  to  the  vacant  place.  I  thouglit 
he  was  creeping  down  that  way,  but  I  was  not  prepared 
for  a  leap  spanning  such  a  tremendous  parenthesis  of 
boarders  as  this  change  of  position  included.  There  was 
no  denying  that  the  youth  and  maiden  were  a  handsome 
pair  as  they  sat  side  by  side.  But  whatever  the  young 
girl  may  have  thought  of  her  new  neighbor,  she  never 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  forget  the  poor  little  friend  who 
had  been  taken  from  her  side.  There  are  women,  and 
even  girls,  with  whom  it  is  of  no  use  to  talk.  One  might 
'IS  well  reason  with  a  bee  as  to  the  form  of  his  cell,  or 
with  an  oriole  as  to  the  construction  of  his  swdnging  nest, 
as  try  to  stir  these  creatures  from  their  own  way  of.  do- 
ing their  own  work.  It  was  not  a  question  with  Iris, 
whether  she  was  entitled  by  any  special  relation  or  by 
the  fitness  of  things  to  play  the  part  of  a  nurse.  She 
was  a  wilful  creature  that  must  have  her  way  in  this 
matter.  And  it  so  proved  that  it  called  for  much  pa- 
tience and  long  endurance  to  carry  through  the  duties, 
say  rather  the  kind  offices,  the  painful  pleasures,  that  she 
had  ciiosen  as  her  share  in  the  household  where  accident 
had  thrown  her.  She  had  that. genius  of  ministration 
which  is  the  special  province  of  certain  women,  marked 
even  among  their  helpfid  sisters  by  a  soft,  low  voice,  a 
quiet  footfall,  a  light  hand,  a  cheering  smile,  and  a  ready 
self-surrender  to  the  objects  of  their  care,  which  such 
trifles  as  their  own  food,  sleep,  or  habits  of  any  kind 
never  presume  to  interfere  with. 

Day  after  day,  and  too  often  through  the  long  watches 
of  the  night,  slie  kept  her  place  by  the  pillow. — That 


t>8  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

girl  will  kill  herself  over  me,  Sir,  —  said  llie  poor  Lit (Ic 
Gentleman  to  me,  one  day,  —  she  will  kill  herself,  Sir, 
if  you  don't  call  in  all  the  resources  of  your  art  to  get 
me  off  as  soon  as  may  be.  I  shall  wear  her  out.  Sir, 
with  sitting  in  this  close  chamber  and  watching  when 
she  ought  to  be  sleeping,  if  you  leave  me  to  the  care  of 
Nature  without  dosing  me. 

This  was  rather  strange  pleasantry,  under  the  circum- 
stances. But  there  are  certain  persons  whose  existence 
is  so  out  of  parallel  with  the  larger  laws  in  the  midst  of 
which  it  is  moving,  that  life  becomes  to  them  as  death 
and  death  as  life. 

XII. 

The  apron-strings  of  an  American  mother  are  made 
of  india-rubber.  Her  boy  belongs  where  he  is  wanted ; 
and  that  young  Marylander  of  ours  spoke  for  all  our 
young  men,  when  he  said  that  his  home  was  wherever 
the  stars  and  stripes  blew  over  his  head. 

And  that  leads  me  to  say  a  few  words  of  this  young 
gentleman,  who  made  that  audacious  movement,  —  jump- 
ing over  the  seats  of  I  don't  know  how  many  boarders 
to  put  himself  in  the  place  which  the  Little  Gentleman's 
absence  had  left  vacant  at  the  side  of  Iris.  When  a 
young  man  is  found  habitually  at  the  side  of  any  one 
given  young  lady,  —  when  he  lingers  where  she  stays, 
and  liastens  when  she  leaves,  —  when  his  eyes  follo\* 
her  as  she  moves,  and  rest  upon  her  when  she  is  still,  — 
wlicn  he  begins  to  grow  a  little  timid,  he  who  was  so 
bold,  and  a  little  pensive,  he  who  was  so  gay,  whenever 
a(;cidciit   liiids  Ihciu  alone, — when  lie  thinks  veiy  often 


IRIS.  69 

of  the  given  young  lady,  and  names  her  very  sel- 
dom,   

What  do  you  say  about  it,  my  charming  young  expert 
in  that  sweet  science  in  which,  perhaps,  a  long  experi- 
ence is  not  the  first  of  qualifications  ? 

But  we  don't  know  anything  about  this  young 

man,  except  that  he  is  good-looking,  and  somewhat  high- 
spirited,  and  strong-limbed,  and  has  a  generous  style  of 
nature,  —  all  very  promising,  but  by  no  means  proving 
that  he  is  a  proper  lover  for  Iris,  whose  heart  we  turned 
inside  out  when  we  opened  that  sealed  book  of  hers. 

Ah,  my  dear  young  friend!  When  your  mamma  — 
then,  if  you  will  believe  it,  a  very  slight  young  lady, 
with  very  pretty  hair  and  figure  —  came  and   told '  her 

mamma  that  your  papa  had  —  had  —  asked No, 

no,  no  !  she  could  n't  say  it ;  but  her  mother  —  O,  the 
depth  of  maternal  sagacity  !  —  guessed  it  all  without 
another  word  !  —  When  your  mother,  I  say,  came  and 
told  her  mother  she  was  engaged,  and  your  grandmother 
told  your  grandfather,  how  much  did  they  know  of  the 
intimate  nature  of  the  young  gentleman  to  whom  she 
had  pledged  her  existence  ?  I  will  not  be  so  hard  as  to 
ask  how  much  your  respected  mamma  knew  at  that 
time  of  the  intimate  nature  of  your  respected  papa, 
though,  if  we  should  compare  a  young  girl's  man-as-she- 
thinks-him  with  a  forty-summered  matron's  man-as-she- 
finds-hlm,  I  have  my  dcjubts  as  to  whether  the  second 
would  be  a  fac-simile  of  the  first  in  most  cases. 

I  have  been  a  good  while  coming  at  a  secret,  for  wliich 
I  wished  to  prepare  you  before-  telling  it.     T  think  there 


70  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

is  a  kindly  feeling  growing  np  between  Iris  and  our 
young  Marylander,  Not  that  I  suppose  there  is  any 
distinct  understanding  between  them,  but  that  the 
atfiuity  which  has  drawn  him  from  tlie  remote  corner 
where  he  sat  to  the  side  of  the  young  girl  is  quietly 
bringing  their  two  natures  together.  Just  now  she  is 
all  given  up  to  another ;  but  when  he  no  longer  calls 
upon  her  daily  thoughts  and  cares,  I  warn  you  not  to 
be  surprised,  if  this  bud  of  friendship  open  like  tlie 
evening  prinu'ose,  with  a  sound  as  of  a  sudden  stolen 
kiss,  and  lo  !  the  flower  of  full-blown  love  lies  unfolded 
before  you. 

XIII. 

And  now  the  days  had  come  for  our  little  friend, 
whose  whims  and  weaknesses  had  interested  us,  per- 
haps, as  much  as  his  better  traits,  to  make  ready  for  that 
long  journey  which  is  easier  to  the  cripple  than  to  the 
strong  man,  and  on  which  none  enters  so  willingly  as 
he  who  has  borne  the  life-long  load  of  infirmity  during 
liis  earthly  pilgrimage. 

The  divinity-student  was  exercised  in  his  mind  about 
the  Little  Gentleman,  and,  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart, 
—  for  he  was  a  good  young  man,  —  and  in  the  strength 
of  his  convictions,  —  for  he  took  it  for  granted  that  lie 
and  his  crowd  were  right,  and  other  folks  and  their  crowd 
were  wrong,  —  lie  determined  to  bring  the  Little  Gentle- 
man round  to  his  faith  before  lie  died,  if  he  could.  So 
lie  sent  word  to  the  sick  man,  that  he  should  be  pleased 
to  visit  him  and  have  some  conversation  with  him  ;  and 
received  for  answer  that  he  would  be  welcome. 


IRIS.  71 

The  diviiiit^'-studeiit  made  liiin  a  visit,  tlicrcforc,  and 
had  a  somewhat  remarkable  interview  witli  him,  whieh 
I  sliall  briefly  relate,  without  attempting  to  justify  the 
positix)ns  taken  by  the  Little  Gentleman.  He  found  him 
weak,  but  calm.     Iris  sat  feilent  by  his  pillow. 

After  the  usual  preliminaries,  the  divinity-student  said, 
in  a  kind  way,  that  he  was  sorry  to  find  him  in  failing 
health,  that  he  felt  concerned  for  his  soul,  and  was 
anxious  to  assist  him  in  making  preparations  for  the 
great  change  awaiting  him. 

I  thank  you.  Sir,  —  said  the  Little  Gentleman  ;  —  per- 
mit me  to  ask  you,  what  makes  you  think  I  am  not 
ready  for  it.  Sir,  and  that  you  can  do  anything  to  help 
me.  Sir  ? 

I  address  you  only  as  a  fellow-man,  —  said  the  divin- 
ity-student, —  and  therefore  a  fellow-sinner. 

I  am  not  a  man,  Sir! — said  the  Little  Gentleman. — 
I  was  born  into  this  world  the  wreck  of  a  man,  and  I 
shall  not  be  judged  with  a  race  to  which  I  do  not 
belong.  Look  at  this  !  — he  said,  and  held  up  his  with- 
ered arm.  —  See  there  !  —  and  he  pointed  to  his  mis- 
shapen extremities.  —  Lay  your  hand  here  !  —  and  he 
laid  his  own  on  the  region  of  his  misplaced  heart.  —  I 
have  known  nothing  of  the  life  of  your  race.  TVlien  I 
first  came  to  my  consciousness,  I  found  myself  an 
object  of  pity,  or  a  sight  to  show.  The  first  strange 
child  I  ever  remember  hid  its  face  and  would  not  come 
near  me.  I  was  a  broken-hearted  as  well  as  broken- 
bodied  boy.  I  grew  into  the  emotions  of  ripening 
youth,  and  all  that  I  could  have  loved  shrank  from  my 
presence.     I  became  a  man  in  years,  and  had  nothing 


i'Z  TJTTLE    CLASSICS. 

in  common  with  manhood  but  its  longings.  My  life  is 
the  dying  pang  of  a  worn-out  race,  and  I  shall  go  down 
alone  into  the  dust,  out  of  this  world  of  men  and  wo- 
men, without  ever  knowing  the  fellowship  of  the  one 
or  the  love  of  the  other.  I  will  not  die  with  a  lie  rat- 
tlmg  in  my  throat.  If  another  state  of  being  has  any- 
thing worse  in  store  for  me,  I  have  had  a  long  appren- 
ticeship to  give  me  strength  that  I  may  bear  it.  I  don't 
believe  it,  Sir !  I  have  too  much  faith  for  that.  God 
has  not  left  me  wholly  without  comfort,  even  here.  I 
love  this  old  place  where  I  was  born ;  —  the  heart  of 
the  world  beats  under  the  three  hills  of  Boston,  Sir !  I 
love  this  great  land,  with  so  many  tall  men  in  it,  and  so 
many  good,  noble  women. — His  eyes  turned  to  the 
silent  figure  by  his  pillow.  —  I  have  learned  to  accept 
meekly  what  has  been  allotted  to  me,  but  I  cannot  hon- 
estly say  that  I  think  my  sin  has  been  greater  than  my 
suftcring.  I  bear  the  ignorance  and  the  evil-doing  of 
whole  generations  in  my  single  person.  I  never  drew 
a  breath  of  air  nor  took  a  step  that  was  not  a  punish- 
ment for  another's  fault.  I  may  have  had  many  wrong 
thoughts,  but  I  cannot  have  done  many  wrong  deeds, 
—  for  my  cage  has  been  a  narrow  one,  and  I  have 
paced  it  alone.  I  have  looked  through  the  bars  and 
seen  the  great  world  of  men  busy  and  happy,  but  I 
had  no  part  in  their  doings.  I  have  known  wliat  it 
was  to  dream  of  the  great  })assions ;  but  since  my 
motlier  kissed  me  before  she  died,  no  woman's  lips 
have  pressed  my  cheek,  —  nor  ever  will. 

The  young  girl's  eyes  glittered  with    a   sudden 

film,  and  almost  without  a  thought,  ))iit  with  a  warm 


lEis.  73 

human  instinct  that,  rushed  up  into  her  face  with  her 
heart's  blood,  she  bent  over  and  kissed  him.  It  was  the 
sacrament  that  washed  out  the  memory  of  long  years  of 
bitterness,  and  I  should  hold  it  an  unworthy  thought  to 
defend  her. 

The  Little  Gentleman  repaid  her  with  the  only  tear 
any  of  us  ever  saw  him  shed.  ^ 

The  divinity-student  rose  from  his  place,  and,  turning 
away  from  the  sick  man,  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  where  he  bowed  his  head  and  was  still.  All  the 
questions  he  had  meant  to  ask  had  faded  from  his  mem- 
ory. The  tests  he  had  prepared  by  which  to  judge  of 
his  fellow-creature's  fitness  for  heaven  seemed  to  have 
lost  their  virtue.  He  could  trust  the  crippled  child  of 
sorrow  to  the  Infinite  Parent.  The  kiss  of  the  fair- 
haired  girl  had  been  like  a  sign  from  heaven,  that  an- 
gels watched  over  him  whom  he  was  presuming  but  a 
moment  before  to  summon  before  the  tribunal  of  his 
private  judgment. 

Shall  I  pray  with  you  ?  —  he  said,  after  a  pause.  —  A 
little  before  he  would  have  said,  Shall  I  pray /or  you  ?  — 
The  Christian  religion,  as  taught  by  its  Founder,  is  full 
of  sentiment.  So  we  must  not  blame  the  divinity-stu- 
dent, if  he  was  overcome  by  those  yearnings  of  human 
sympathy  which  predominate  so  much  more  in  the  ser- 
mons of  the  Master  than  in  the  writings  of  his  succes- 
sors, and  which  have  made  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal 
Son  the  consolation  of  mankind,  as  it  has  been  the 
stumbling-block  of  all  exclusive  doctrines. 

Pray  !  —  said  the  Little  Gentleman. 

The  divinity -student  prayed,  in  low,  tender  tones,  that 

VOL.  VII.  4 


7-1  LITTLE    CLASSICS 

God  ^'ould  look  on  liis  servant  lying  helpless  at  the  feet 
of  his  mercy ;  that  he  would  remember  his  long  years 
of  bondage  in  the  flesh ;  that  he  would  deal  gently  with 
the  bruised  reed.  Thou  hast  visited  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  upon  this  their  child.  0,  turn  aAvay  from  him 
the  penalties  of  his  own  transgressions  !  Thou  hast  laid 
upon  him,  from  infancy,  ilie  cross  which  thy  stronger 
children  are  called  upon  to  take  up ;  and  now  that  he 
is  fainting  under  it,  be  Thou  his  stay,  and  do  Thou  suc- 
cor him  that  is  tempted !  Let  his  manifold  infirmities 
come  between  him  and  Thy  judgment ;  in  ^^Tatli  remem- 
ber mercy !  If  his  eyes  are  not  opened  to  all  thy  truth, 
let  thy  compassion  lighten  the  darkness  that  rests  upon 
him,  even  as  it  came  through  the  word  of  thy  Son  to 
blind  Bartimeus,  who  sat  by  the  wayside,  begging ! 

Many  more  petitions  he  uttered,  but  all  in  the  same 
subdued  tone  of  tenderness.  In  the  presence  of  helpless 
suffering,  and  in  the  fast-darkening  shadow  of  the  De- 
stroyer, he  forgot  all  but  his  Christian  humanity,  and 
cared  more  about  consoling  his  fellow-man  than  making 
a  proselyte  of  him. 

This  was  the  last  prayer  to  which  the  Little  Gentle- 
man ever  listened.  Some  change  was  raj)idly  comhig 
over  iiim  during  this  last  hour  of  which  I  have  been 
speaking.  The  excitement  of  pleading  his  cause  before 
his  self-elected  spiritual  adviser, — the  emotion  wliieh 
overcame  him,  when  the  young  girl  obeyed  the  sudden 
impulse  of  her  feelings  and  pressed  her  lips  to  his  cheek, 
■ — tlic  thonglits  that  mastered  liim  wliile  the  divinity- 
stiident  ])oiir(^d  out  his  soul  for  him  in  prayer,  might 
well  hurry  on  the  inevitable  moment.     When  the  divin- 

/ 


IRIS.  75 

ity-studcnt  had  uttered  liis  last  petition,  commending 
him  to  the  Father  through  his  Son's  intercession,  he 
turned  to  look  upon  him  before  leaving  his  chamber. 
His  face  was  changed.  —  There  is  a  language  of  the 
human  countenance  which  we  all  understand  without  an 
mterpreter,  though  the  hneaments  belong  to  the  rudest 
savage  that  ever  stammered  in  an  unknown  barbaric 
dialect.  By  the  stillness  of  the  sharpened  features,  by 
the  blankness  of  the  tearless  eyes,  by  the  fixedness  of 
the  smileless  mouth,  by  the  deadening  tints,  by  the  con- 
tracted brow,  by  the  dilating  nostril,  we  know  that  the 
soul  is  soon  to  leave  its  mortal  tenement,  and  is  already 
closing  up  its  windows  and  putting  out  its  fires.  —  Such 
was  the  aspect  of  the  face  upon  which  the  divinity-stu- 
dent looked,  after  the  brief  silence  which  followed  his 
prayer.  The  change  had  been  rapid,  though  not  that 
abrupt  one  which  is  liable  to  happen  at  any  moment  in 
these  cases.  —  The  sick  man  looked  towards  him.  — 
Earewell,  —  he  said  —  I  thank  you.  Leave  me  alone 
with  her. 

When  the  divinity-student  had  gone,  and  the  Little 
Gentleman  found  himself  alone  with  Iris,  he  lifted  his 
hand  to  his  neck,  and  took  from  it,  suspended  by  a 
slender  chain,  a  quaint,  antique-looking  key,  —  the  same 
key  I  had  once  seen  him  holding.  He  gave  tliis  to 
her,  and  pointed  to  a  carved  cabinet  opposite  his 
bed,  one  of  those  that  had  so  attracted  my  curious 
eyes  and  set  me  wondering  as  to  what  it  might  con- 
tain. 

Open  it,  —  he  said,  ^  and  hght  the  lamp.  —  The 
young  girl  walked  to  the  cabinet  and  unlocked  the  door. 


70  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

A  deep  recess  appeared,  lined  with  black  velvet,  against 
which  stood  in  white  relief  an  ivory  crucifix.  A  silver 
lamp  hung  over  it.  She  lighted  the  lamp  and  came  back 
to  the  bedside.  The  dying  man  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
figure  of  the  dying  Saviour.  —  Give  me  your  haud,  —  he 
said ;  and  Iris  placed  her  right  hand  in  his  left.  So  they 
remained,  until  presently  his  eyes  lost  their  meaning, 
though  they  still  remained  vacantly  fixed  upon  the  white 
image.  Yet  he  held  the  young  girl's  hand  firmly,  as  if 
it  were  leading  him  through  some  deep-shadowed  valley 
and  it  was  all  he  could  cling  to.  But  presently  an  in- 
voluntary muscular  contraction  stole  over  him,  and  his 
terrible  dying  grasp  held  the  poor  girl  as  if  she  were 
wedged  in  an  engine  of  torture.  She  pressed  her  lips 
together  and  sat  still.  The  inexorable  hand  held  her 
tigiiter  and  tighter,  until  she  felt  as  if  her  own  slender 
fingers  would  be  crushed  in  its  gripe.  It  was  one  of 
the  tortures  of  the  Inquisition  she  was  sufi'ering,  and  she 
could  not  stir  from  her  place.  Then,  in  her  great  an- 
guish, she,  too,  cast  her  eyes  upon  that  dying  figure, 
and,  looking  upon  its  pierced  hands  and  feet  and  side 
and  lacerated  forehead,  she  felt  that  slie  also  must  suffer 
uncomplahiing.  In  the  moment  of  her  sharpest  pain  she 
did  not  forget  the  duties  of  her  tender  office,  but  dried 
the  dying  man's  moist  forehead  with  her  handkerchief, 
even  while  the  dews  of  agony  were  glistening  on  her 
own.  How  long  this  lasted  she  never  could  tell.  Time 
and  tliii'si  are  hvo  things  you  and  I  talk  about;  but  the 
victims  whom  holy  men  and  righteous  judges  used  to 
stretch  on  tlieir  engines  knew  better  wliat  they  meant 
than  you  or  I !  —  Wliat  is  that  great  bucket  of  water 


IRIS.  77 

for  ?  said  the  Marchioness  de  Brinvilliers,  before  she  was 
placed  on  the  rack.  —  For  you  to  drink,  —  said  the  tor- 
turer to  the  litt/le  woman.  —  She  could  not  think  that  it 
would  take  such  a  flood  to  quench  the  fire  in  her  and 
so  keep  her  alive  for  her  confession.  The  torturer  knew 
better  than  she. 

After  a  time  not  to  be  counted  in  minutes,  as  the 
clock  measures,  —  without  any  warning, — there  came 
a  swift  change  of  his  features ;  his  face  turned  wliite,  as 
the  waters  whiten  when  a  sudden  breath  passes  over 
their  still  surface ;  the  muscles  instantly  relaxed,  and 
Iris,  released  at  once  from  her  care  for  the  sufferer  and 
from  his  unconscious  grasp,  fell  senseless,  with  a  feeble 
cry,  —  the  only  utterance  of  her  long  agony. 

■ Iris  went  into  mourning  for  the  Little  Gentle- 
man. Although  he  left  the  bulk  of  his  property,  by  will, 
to  a  public  institution,  he  added  a  codicil,  by  which  he 
disposed  of  various  pieces  of  property  as  tokens  of  kind 
remembrance.  It  was  in  this  way  I  became  the  possessor 
of  the  wonderful  instrument  I  have  spoken  -of,  wliich 
had  been  purchased  for  him  out  of  an  Italian  convent. 
The  landlady  was  comforted  with  a  small  legacy.     The 

following  extract  relates  to  Iris  :  " in  consideration 

of  her  manifold  acts  of  kmdness,  but  only  in  token  of 
grateful  remembrance,  and  by  no  means  as  a  reward  for 
services  which  cannot  be  compensated,  a  certain  mes- 
suage, with  all  the  land  thereto  appertaining,  situate  in 

Street,  at  the  North  End,  so   called,  of  Boston, 

aforesaid,  the  same  being  the  house  in  which  I  was  born, 
but   now   inhabited  by  several  families,  and   known   as 


78  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

'  the  Rookeiy.'  "  Iris  liad  also  the  crucifix,  the  por- 
trait, and  the  red-jewelled  ring.  The  funeral  or  death's- 
head  ring  was  buried  with  him. 

XIV. 

Some  of  the  boarders  were  of  opinion  that  Iris  did 
not  return  tlic  undisguised  attentions  of  the  handsome 
young  Mary  lander.  Instead  of  fixing  her  eyes  steadily 
on  him,  as  she  used  to  look  upon  the  Little  Gentleman, 
she  would  turn  them  away,  as  if  to  avoid  his  own.  Tlicy 
often  went  to  church  together,  it  is  true ;  but  nobody, 
of  course,  supposes  there  is  any  relation  between  religious 
sympathy  and  those  wretched  "  sentimental "  move- 
ments of  the  human  heart  upon  which  it  is  commonly 
agreed  that  nothing  better  is  based  than  society,  civiliza- 
tion, friendship,  the  relation  of  husband  and  wife,  and  of 
parent  and  child,  and  which  many  people  must  think 
were  singularly  overrated  by  the  Teacher  of  Nazareth, 
whose  whole  life,  as  I  said  before,  was  full  of  sentiment, 
loving  tills  or  that  young  man,  pardonhig  this  or  that 
sinner,  weeping  over  the  dead,  mourning  for  the  doomed 
city,  blessing,  and  perhajjs  kissing,  the  little  children,  — 
so  that  the  Gospels  are  still  cried  over  almost  as  often  as 
the  last  work  of  fiction  ! 

"But  one  fine  Juno  morning  there  rumbled  up  to  llio 
door  of  our  boarding-house  a  hack  containing  a  lady 
inside  and  a  trunk  on  the  outside.  It  was  our  friend 
llie  lady-})atroness  of  Miss  Iris,  the  same  Avho  had  been 
called  by  hor  admiring  pastor  "The  M()d<;l  of  all  the 
Virtues."     Unec  a  wcv.k  slu;  liad  written  a  letter,  in  a 


IRIS.  79 

rather  formal  hand,  but  full  of  good  advice,  to  li(;r  young 
charge.  And  uow  ylie  had  come  to  carry  her  away, 
1  hiiiking  that  she  had  learned  all  she  was  likely  to  learn 
under  her  present  course  of  teacliing.  The  Model,  how- 
ever, was  to  stay  awhile,  — a  week,  or  more, — before 
they  should  leave  together. 

Iris  was  obedient,  as  she  was  bound  to  be.  She  was 
respectful,  grateful,  as  a  child  is  Avith  a  just,  but  not 
tender  parent.  Yet  something  was  ^vTong.  She  had 
one  of  her  trances,  and  became  statue -Uke,  as  before, 
only  the  day  after  the  Model's  arrival.  She  was  wan 
and  silent,  tasted  nothing  at  table,  smiled  as  if  by  a 
forced  effort,  and  often  looked  vaguely  away  from  those 
who  were  looking  at  her,  her  eyes  just  glazed  with  the 
shining  moisture  of  a  tear  that  must  not  be  allowed  to 
gather  and  fall.  Was  it  grief  at  parting  from  the  place 
where  her  strange  friendship  had  grown  up  with  the 
Little  Gentleman  ?  Yet  she  seemed  to  have  become 
reconciled  to  his  loss,  and  rather  to  have  a  deep  feeling 
of  gratitude  that  she  had  been  permitted  to  care  for  him 
in  his  last  weary  days. 

The  Sunday  after  the  Model's  arrival,  that  lady  had 
an  attack  of  headache,  and  was  obliged  to  shut  herself 
up  in  a  darkened  room  alone.  Our  two  young  friends 
.took  the  opportunity  to  go  together  to  the  Church  of  the 
Galileans.  They  said  but  little  §oing,  —  "  collecting 
their  thoughts  "  for  the  service,  I  devoutly  hope.  My 
kind  good  friend  the  pastor  preached  that  day  one  of  his 
sermons  that  make  us  all  feel  like  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  his  text  was  that  affectionate  one  from  John,  "  My 
little  children,  let  us  not  love  in  word,  neither  in  tongue. 


80  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

but  m  deed  and  iii  tnitli."  When  Iris  and  lier  friend 
came  out  of  cliurcli,  tliey  were  both  pale,  and  walked  a 
space  without  speaking. 

At  last  the  young  man  said,  —  You  and  I  are  not 
little  children,  Iris  ! 

She  looked  in  his  face  an  instant,  as  if  startled,  for 
there  was  something  strange  in  the  tone  of  his  voice. 
She  smiled  faintly,  but  spoke  never  a  word. 

In  deed  and  in  truth.  Iris, 

What  shall  a  poor  girl  say  or  do,  when  a  strong  man 
falters  in  his  speech  before  lier,  and  can  do  nothing 
better  than  hold  out  his  hand  to  finish  his  broken  sen- 
tence ? 

The  poor  girl  said  nothing,  but  quietly  laid  her  un- 
gloved hand  in  his,  —  the  little  soft  white  hand  w^hich 
had  ministered  so  tenderly  and  suffered  so  patiently. 

The  blood  came  back  to  the  young  man's  cheeks,  as 
he  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  even  as  they  walked  there  in  the 
street,  touched  it  gently  with  them,  and  said,  —  "  It  is 
mine ! " 

Iris  did  not  contradict  him. 


XV. 

The  seasons  pass  by  so  rapidly,  that  I  am  startled  to 
thuik  how  much  has  happened  since  these  events  I  was 
describing.  Those  two  young  people  would  insist  on 
having  their  own  way  about  their  own  afftiirs,  notwith- 
standing tlie  good  lady,  so  justly  called  the  Model, 
insisted  that  the  age  of  twenty-five  years  was  as  early  as 
any  discreet  young  lady  should  think  of  incurring  the 


IRIS.  81 

responsibilities,  etc.,  etc.  Long  before  Iris  liad  reached 
that  age,  she  was  the  wife  of  a  young  Maryland  engineer, 
directing  some  of  the  vast  constructions  of  his  native 
State, — where  he  was  growing  rich  fast  enough  to  be 
able  to  decline  that  famous  liussiau  offer  which  would 
liave  made  him  a  kind  of  nabob  in  a  few  years.  Iris 
does  not  write  verse  often,  nowadays,  but  she  sometimes 
draws.  The  last  sketch  of  hers  I  have  seen  in  my 
Southern  visits  was  of  two  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  the 
youngest  holding  a  silver  goblet,  like  the  one  she  held 
that  evening  when  I  —  I  was  so  struck  with  her  statue- 
like beauty.  If  in  the  later  summer  months  you  find 
the  grass  marked  w^ith  footsteps  around  a  grave  on 
Copp's  Hill,  and  flowers  scattered  over  it,  you  may  be 
sure  that  Iris  is  here  on  her  annual  visit  to  the  home  of 
her  childhood  and  that  excellent  lady  whose  only  fault 
was,  that  Nature  had  written  out  her  list  of  virtues  on 
ruled  paper,  and  forgotten  to  rub  out  the  lines. 

One  thing  more  I  must  mention.  Being  on  the  Com- 
mon, last  Sunday,  I  was  attracted  by  the  cheerfvil  spec- 
tacle of  a  well-dressed  and  somewhat  youthful  papa 
wheeling  a  very  elegant  little  carriage  containing  a  stout 
baby.  A  buxom  young  lady  watched  them  from  one  of 
the  stone  seats,  wdth  an  interest  which  could  be  nothing 
less  than  maternal.  I  at  once  recognized  my  old  friend, 
the  young  fellow  whom  we  called  John.  He  was  de- 
lighted to  see  me,  introduced  me  to  "  Madam,"  and 
would  have  the  lusty  infant  out  of  the  carriage,  and 
hold  him  up  for  me  to  look  at. 

Now,  then,  —  he  said  to  the  two-year-old,  —  show  the 
gentleman  how  you  hit  from  the  shoulder.  —  Whereupon 
4*  p 


8:i  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

tlie  little  imp  piislicd  his  fat  fist  straight  inio  my  eye,  to 
his  father's  mteuse  satisfaction. 

Fust-rate  little  chap, — said  the  papa.  —  Chip  of  the 
old  block.     Regl'r  little  Johnny,  you  know. 

I  was  so  much  pleased  to  find  the  young  fellow  settled 
in  life,  and -pushing  about  one  of  "them  little  articles" 
he  had  seemed  to  want  so  much,  that  I  took  my  "  pun- 
ishment "  at  the  hands  of  the  infant  pugilist  with  great 
equanimity.  —  And  how  is  the  old  boarding-house  ?  I 
asked. 

A  1,  he  answered.  Painted  and  papered  as  good  as 
new.  Gahs  in  all  the  rooms  np  to  the  sky-parlors.  Old 
woman's  layin'  up  nionc}",  they  say.  Mei.ns  to  send 
Ben  Franklin  to  college.  —  Just  then  the  first  bell  rang 
for  church,  and  my  friend,  who,  I  understand,  has  be- 
come a  most  exemplary  member  of  society,  said  he  must 
be  off  to  get  ready  for  meet  in',  and  told  the  young  one 
to  "  shake  dada,"  which  he  did  with  his  closed  fist,  in  a 
somewhat  menacing  manner.  And  so  the  young  man 
John,  as  we  used  to  call  him,  took  the  pole  of  the  minia- 
ture carriage,  and  pushed  the  small  pugilist  before  him 
homewards,  followed,  in  a  somewhat  leisurely  way,  by  his 
pleasant-looking  lady-companion,  and  I  sent  a  sigh  and  a 
smile  after  him. 


THE   ROSICRUCIAN. 


BY  DINAH  MARIA  MTJLOCK  CRAIK- 


I. 


KNOW  uot  if  men  would  saj  that  tlie  face 
of  Basil  Wolgemutli  was  beautiful.  There 
were  no  darkly  gleaming  eyes,  no  sculptured 
features,  no  clustering  raven  locks;  all  was  fair,  clear, 
and  sunny  as  his  own  soul.  And  what  a  soul  was  that ! 
It  lighted  up  his  whole  countenance,  as  the  sun  lights  up 
a  landscape,  —  making  that  which  woidd  else  have  been 
ordinary  most  glorious.  It  was  mirrored  in  his  eyes ;  it 
shone  in  his  every  gesture ;  it  made  music  in  his  voice ; 
it  accompanied  him  like  a  fair  presence,  giving  life,  love, 
and  beauty  wherever  he  moved. 

He  sat  in  a  low-roofed,  half-darkened  chamber,  whose 
gloomy  recesses  looked  almost  fearful.  Now  and  then 
passing  sounds  of  humam voices  rose  from  the  street  be- 
low, and  ever  and  anon  the  great  beU  of  Cologne  Cathe- 
dral boomed  out  the  hours,  making  the  after  silence 
deeper  still.  The  student  —  for  such  he  evidently  was 
—  leaned  his  slight  and  rather  diminutive  form  in  the 


84  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

attitude  of  one  wearied ;  but  there  was  no  lassitude 
visible  in  his  expressive  face,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed 
with  a  dreamy  and  thoughtful  gaze  on  the  blazing 
fagots  that  roared  and  sparkled  on  the  hearth  before 
him. 

The  fire  was  his  sole  companion ;  and  it  was  good  com- 
pany, in  sooth.  Not  mute  either  ;  for  it  seemed  to  talk 
like  a  human  voice.  How  the  live  juices  hissed  out, 
when  the  damp  pine-wood  caught  the  blaze,  and  chat- 
tered and  muttered  like  a  vexed  child  !  How  furiously 
it  struggled  and  roared,  as  the  flames  grew  stronger ! 
How  it  sunk  into  a  low,  complaining  sound,  and  then 
into  a  dead  stillness,  being  conquered  at  last,  and  breath- 
ing its  life  out  in  a  ruddy  but  silent  glow.  Such  was  the 
voice  of  the  fire,  but  the  student  beheld  its  form  too. 
Quaint  and  mysterious  were  the  long  fiery  alleys  and  red 
caverns  which  it  made,  mingled  with  black  hollows,  out 
of  which  mocking  faces  seemed  to  peep ;  Avhile  the  light 
flames  waving  to  and  fro  were  like  aerial  shapes  moving 
in  a  fantastic  dance.  Beautiful  and  mystic  appeared  the 
fire. 

Basil  Wolgcmuth  was  a  student  and  a  dreamer.  He 
liad  pierced  into  the  secrets  of  nature  and  of  philoso- 
phy, not  as  an  idle  seeker,  mechanically  following  the 
bent  of  a  vague  curiosity,  but  as  an  entliusiastic  lover, 
who  would  fathom  the  depths  of  liis  beloved's  soul. 
He  knew  that  in  this  world  all  thhigs  bear  two  mean- 
ings ;  one  for  the  commcm  observer,  one  for  the  liighcr 
mind  of  him  who,  with  an  earnest  purpose  and  a  stead- 
fast but  lovhig  heart,  penetrates  into  those  mines  of 
hidden   riches,  —  the   treasures  of  science   and  of   im- 


THE    R03ICRUCIAN.  85 

agination.  Basil  was  still  young ;  and  yet  men  of  leani- 
iug  and  power  listened  with  deference  to  liis  words; 
wisdom,  rank,  and  beauty  liad  trodden  that  poor  cham- 
ber, and  felt  honored,  —  for  it  was  the  habitation  of 
genius. 

And  was  all  this  sunshine  of  fame  lavished  upon  a 
barren  tree,  which  brought  forth  at  best  only  the  daz- 
zling fruits  of  mere  intellect,  beautiful  to  the  eye  but 
deceptive  to  the  heart  as  the  jewelled  apples  of  Aladdm, 
or  was  it  rich  in  all  good  fruits  of  human  kindness  ? 
Ask  the  mother,  to  whom  the  very  footsteps  of  her  du- 
tiful son  brought  hght  and  gladness ;  ask  the  sister, 
whose  pride  in  her  noble  kinsman  was  even  less  than 
her  love  for  the  gentle  and  forbearing  brother  who 
made  the  sunshine  of  their  home.  These  would  speak 
for  Basil.  There  was  one  —  one  more ;  but  he  knew 
it  not  then. 

The  fire  sank  to  a  few  embers,  and  through  the  small 
wuidow  at  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment  the  young 
moon  looked  with  her  quiet  smile.  At  last  the  door  was 
half  opened,  and  a  girlish  face  peeped  in. 

"  Are  you  sleeping,  Basil,  or  only  musing  ?  " 

"  Is  that  you,  Margareta  ?  "  said  the  student,  without 
changing  his  attitude. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  growing  late,  brother  ;  will  you  not  come 
to  supper  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  need  it,  dear  Margareta,  thank  you." 

"  But  we  want  you,  Basil ;  my  mother  is  asking  for 
you  ;  and  Isilda,  too,  is  here." 

A  bright  smile  passed  over  the  young  man's  face ;  but 
his  sister  did  not  see  it,  and  continued  :  — 


86  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Come,  brother ;  do  come ;  you  have  studied  enough 
for  to-day." 

He  rose  cheerfully :  "  Well,  then,  tell  my  mother  I 
■will  come  directly." 

Margareta  closed  the  door,  and  Basil  stood  thought- 
fully by  the  fire.  At  that  moment  a  bright  flame,  spring- 
ing up  from  some  stray  brand  yet  uukindled,  illumined 
his  face,  —  it  was  radiant  with  the  light  of  love.  Ilis 
finely  curved  lips,  the  sole  beautiful  feature  there,  were 
trembling  Avitli  a  happy  smile,  as  they  murmured  in  low 
tones  one  beloved  name,  —  "  Isilda,  Isilda  !  " 

II. 

Let  us  glance  at  the  home  of  Basil  Wolgemuth.  It 
was  a  German  habitation  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  a  comfort- 
able but  not  luxurious  dwelling,  such  a  one  as  we  see  in 
old  German  pictures.  In  homes  like  this  was  nurtured 
the  genius  of  Rembrandt,  of  Rubens,  of  Vandyck  ;  from 
such  a  peaceful  German  home  sprang  the  fiery  s])irit 
and  indomitable  zeal  of  Luther ;  and  in  like  home-nests 
were  cradled  the  early  years  of  most  of  the  rude  but  noble 
men,  w^ho,  either  by  the  sword  or  the  pen,  have  made 
their  names  famous  throughout  the  fair  land  of  tlie 
Rhine. 

Basil,  his  mother,  Margareta,  and  another  young 
girl  sat  round  a  ta])le,  spread  with  the  ample  fare 
of  bn-ad  and  frnits.  The  mother  w^as  worthy  of 
snch  a  son,  —  a  mairon  of  placid  but  noble  asj)ect ; 
like  him,  too,  in  the  deep  clear  eyes  and  open  fore- 
licad.      Margareta,   a    sweet   bud,   which    only   needed 


THE    llOSICRUCIAN.  87 

time  to  burst  forth  into  a  perfect  flower,  sat  by 
her  brother's  side;  the  fourth  of  the  group  was 
Isilda. 

I  hardly  know  how  to  describe  Isilda.  There  is  one 
face  only  I  have  seen  which  pictures  her  to  ray  idea ;  it 
is  a  Madonna  of  Guido  Reni's.  Once  beheld,  that  face 
imprints  itself  forever  on  the  heart.  It  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  a  soul  so  pure,  so  angelic,  that  it  might  have  been 
Eve's  when  she  was  still  in  Eden ;  yet  there  is  in  the 
eyes  that  shadow  of  woman's  mtense  love,  the  handmaid 
of  which  is  ever  sorrow;  and  those  deep  blue  orbs 
seemed  thoughtfully  looking  into  the  dim  future  witli  a 
vague  sadness,  as  if  conscious  that  the  peace  of  the  pres- 
ent would  not  endure.  Womanly  sweetness,  feelings 
suppressed,  not  slumbering,  a  soul  attuned  to  high 
thoughts  like  a  well-strung  lyre,  and  only  needing  a 
breath  to  awaken  its  harmonious  chords,  —  all  these  are 
visible  in  that  face  which  shone  into  the  painter's  heart, 
and  has  lived  forever  in  the  work  of  his  hand.  And  such 
was  Isilda. 

Basil  sat  opposite  to  her  ;  he  looked  into  her  eyes ;  he 
drank  in  her  smile,  and  was  happy.  All  traces  of  the 
careworn  student  had  vanished ;  he  was  cheerful  even  to 
gayety ;  laughed  and  jested  with  his  sister ;  bade  her  sing 
old  ditties,  and  even  joined  in  the  strain,  which  made 
them  all  more  mirthful  stiU.  Basil  had  little  music  in 
his  voice,  but  much  in  his  heart.  When  the  songs  ceased, 
Margareta  prayed  him  to  repeat  some  old  ballad,  he 
knew  so  many.  The  student  looked  towards  Isilda ;  her 
eyes  had  more  persuasive  eloquence  than  even  his  sis- 
ter's words,  and  he  began :  — 


88  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"THE   ELLE-MAID   GAY.* 

"  Ridest  by  the  woodland,  Ludwig,  Ludwig, 
Ridest  by  tbe  Avoodland  gray  ? 
Who  sits  by  the  woodhuid,  Ludwig,  Ludwig  ? 
It  is  the  EUc-maid  gay. 

"  A  kiss  on  thy  lips  lies,  Ludwig,  Ludwig, 
Pure  as  the  dews  of  May  : 
Think  on  thine  own  love,  brown-haired  Ludwig, 
And  not  on  an  Elle-maid  gay. 

"  She  sits  'ueath  a  lindtn,  singing,  singing. 
Though  her  dropped  lids  nothing  say ; 
For  her  beauty  lures  Avhether  smiling  or  singing. 
For  she  is  an  Elle-maid  gay. 

"  '  Thou  hast  drunk  of  my  wine-cup,  Ludwig,  Ludwig, 
Thou  hast  drunk  of  my  lips  this  day ; 
I  am  no  more  false  than  thou,  young  Ludwig, 
Though  I  am  an  Elle-maid  gay.' 

"  '  Ride  fast  from  the  woodland,  Ludwig,  Ludwig,' 
Her  laughter  tracks  his  way ; 
'  Didst  thou  clasp  a  fair  woman,  Ludwig,  Ludwig, 
And  found  her  an  Elle-maid  gay  ? ' 

"  '  Flee,  flee ! '  they  cry,  '  he  is  mad,  Count  Ludwig ; 
He  i-ides  through  the  street  to-day 
With  his  beard  unshorn,  and  his  cloak  brier-torn : 
He  has  met  with  Iho  Elle-maid  gay  ! ' 

*  Tlie  Ellc-iiiaid,  or  avoo(1-\\ oiium,  is  a  kind  of  siirifc,  who  in  front 
npiic-ars  ns  a  Ixiautiful  dainsel,  but  seen  licliiiul  is  hollow  like  a  mask.  She 
sits  on  tlic  roadside,  offering  lier  wine-cup  and  her  kiss;  but  the  moment 
a  youtli  lias  tasted  cither,  lie  becomtis  raving  mad.  There  are  many 
legends  of  this  sort  current  in  Germany. 


THE    ROSICRUCIAN.  C 

" '  I  fear  him  not,  my  knight,  my  Ludwig  ' 
(The  bride's  dear  lips  did  say), 
'  Though  he  comes  from  the  woodland,  he  is  my  Ludwig ; 
He  saw  not  the  Elle-maid  gay. 

"  '  We'lcome,  my  lord,  my  love,  my  Ludwig ! ' 

But  her  smile  grew  ashen-gray,  * 

As  she  knew  by  the  glare  of  the  mad  eyes'  stare, 
He  had  been  with  the  Elle-maid  gay. 

" '  God  love  thee  —  God  pity  thee,  0  my  Ludwig  ! ' 
Nor  her  true  arms  turned  she  away. 
'Thou  art  no  sweet  woman,'  cried  fiercely  Ludwig, 
'  But  a  foul  EUe-maid  gay. 

" '  I  kiss  thee  —  I  slay  thee ;  —  I  thy  Ludwig  ' : 
And  the  steel  flashed  bright  to  the  day : 
'Better  clasp  a  dead  bride,'  laughed  out  Ludwig, 
'  Than  a  false  Elle-maid  gay. 

"  '  I  kissed  thee,  I  slew  thee ;  I  —  thy  Ludwig ; 
And  now  will  we  sleep  alway.' 
Still  fair  blooms  the  woodland  where  rode  Ludwig, 


The  student  ceased;  and  there  was  a  deep  silence. 
Basil's  young  sister  glanced  round  fearfully.  Isilda 
moved  not ;  but  as  the  clear  tones  of  Basil's  voice  ended, 
one  deep-drawn  sigh  was  heard,  as  it  were  the  uncon- 
scious relief  of  a  full  heart. 

"You  have  chosen  a  gloomy  story,  Basil,"  said  the 
mother,  at  last. 

Her  voice  broke  the  spell ;  and  Margareta  added,  — 

"I  do  not  pity  that  false-hearted  knight;  his  was  a 


90  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

just  pnnisliment  for  a  lieavy  sin  :  for  the  poor  bride  to  d^. 
thus  in  her  Toutli  and  happiness,  —  O,  it  was  very  sad  !  - 

"  Not  so,"  said  Isilda,  and  she  spoke  in  a  low  dreamy 
tone,  as  if  half  to  herself.  "  It  was  not  sad,  even  to  be 
slain  by  him  slie  loved,  since  she  died  in  his  arms,*  having- 
known  l^at  he  loved  her.     It  was  a  happy  fate." 

There  was  such  an  expression  of  intense  feeling  in  the 
girl's  face  as  she  spoke,  that  Margareta  looked  at  her  in 
wondering  silence ;  but  Basil  gave  an  involuntary  start, 
as  if  a  new  light  had  broken  in  upon  his  mind.  The 
living  crimson  rushed  immediately  over  Isilda's  face  and 
neck,  she  seemed  shrinking  into  the  earth  with  shame, 
and  said  no  more.  Basil,  too,  kept  silence.  No  marvel 
was  it  in  the  timid  girl  wlio  rarely  gave  utterance  to  her 
thoughts,  but  that  he  whose  heart  was  so  full  of  poetry, 
whose  lips  were  ever  brimming  over  with  eloquence, 
should  be  dumb,  —  it  was  passing  strange  !  The  student 
felt  as  though  there  was  a  finger  laid  on  his  lips,  jm  mi- 
secn  presence  compelhng  him  to  silence ;  but  the  finger 
jind  the  presence  were  those  of  tlie  Angel  of  Love. 

Tliere  was  a  constraint  visible  in  all  but  Margareta; 
she,  too  young  to  understand  what  was  passing  in  the 
hearts  of  the  two  she  loved  so  much,  began  to  sport  with 
her  friend. 

"  Well !  I  sliould  not  envy  Cuiint  Ludwig's  bride, 
Isilda;  I  would  much  rather  hve.  rarewell,  you  dol- 
orous folk.     I  will  go  spin." 

And  she  vanished  with  the  swiftness  of  a  young  fa^^^l. 
Tlie  mother  followed  lier  with  her  eyes. 

"  A  sunny  and  loving  heart  is  thine,  my  child,"  slic 
murmured.     "God  bless  thee,  and  kec.p  all  care  from 


THE    llOSICRUCIAN.  91 

that  gay  spirit !  "  Aiid  Madame  Wolgcmutli  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  closing  her  eyes.  The  mother's  heart 
seemed  absorbed  in  the  past,  or  else  dreaming  of  her 
child's  future. 

But,  by  the  two  thus  left  together,  past  and  future 
were  alike  unregarded.  With  Basil  and  Isilda  i|  was  ail 
the  present,  —  the  blissful  present,  full  of  hope  and  love. 
Tliey  talked  but  little,  and  in  broken  sentences,  flitting 
from  subject  to  subject,  lest  each  should  lead  to  the  un- 
veiHng  of  the  delicious  secret  that  was  uppermost  in  both 
their  hearts  and  which  they  at  once  feared,  yet  longed  to 
utter.  At  last-  the  lamp  grew  dim,  and  the  moonlight 
streamed  in  through  the  narrow  \vindow.  Isilda  noticed 
and  spoke  of  it,  —  it  was  a  relief. 

"  How  lovely  the  moon  looks,  setting  behind  the  cathe- 
dral !  "  And,  rising,  she  walked  to  the  window ;  it  might 
be  she  was  glad  to  escape  from  the  passionate  tenderness 
of  Basil's  gaze. 

The  young  student  followed  her,  moving  noiselessly^ 
for  his  aged  mother  had  fallen  asleep.  And  now  the  two 
stood  together,  silent,  alone  with  their  own  hearts,  look- 
ing up  to  the  quiet,  star-lit  sky,  and  driukirig  in  love, 
w^iicli  seemed  infinite  as  that  heaven  itself. 

"  How  beautiful  is  this  world  !  "  murmured  the  girl. 

"  I  feel  it  so ;  and  most  when  thus  with  thee,  Isilda," 
—  and  with  what  unspeakable  sweetness  and  tenderness 
the  name  lingered  on  liis  lips,  —  "  Isilda,  —  my  Isilda  !  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  tremulous  silence,  and  then  the 
girl  felt  herself  drawn  closer,  until  her  head  rested  ou 
his  bosom,  and  she  heard  his  voice  whispering  in  her 


9^  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  May  I  call  thee  my  Isilda  —  all  mine  —  mine  only  -^ 
mine  forever  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head,  and  looked  timidly  bnt  searchingly 
in  his  countenance. 

"  Is  it  indeed  true  ?  dost  thou  then  love  me  ?  " 

"  As  my  own  soul ! "  passionately  answered  the  stu- 
dent. 

Isilda  hid  her  face  again  in  his  bosom,  and  burst  into 
a  shower  of  tears. 

The  girl  and  her  lover  went  home  together  that  night, 
through  the  cold,  clear  starlight,  to  Isilda's  abode. 
Many  and  many  a  time  had  they  trod  the  same  path,  but 
now  everything  was  changed.  They  had  become  all  in 
all  to  each  other ;  an  infinity  of  love  was  around  them ; 
all  was  hght,  hope,  and  trembling  gladness.  The  crisp 
snow  crackled  under  Isilda's  feet,  and  the  sharp  frosty 
air  made  her  shiver ;  but  she  felt  it  not.  She  only  clung 
the  closer  to  Basil's  arm;  he  was  all  her  own  now;  he, 
her  life's  joy,  her  pride,  the  idol  of  her  dreams,  the  de- 
light of  her  soul.  Such  happiness  was  almost  too  much 
to  bear;  and,  therefore,  when  she  first  knew  that  he 
loved  her,  had  Isilda  wept,  —  nay,  even  when  she  had 
parted  from  Basil  and  was  alone,  her  full  heart  poured 
itself  forth  in  tears.  That  he, — the  noble,  the  gifted, 
so  rich  in  the  greatest  of  all  wealth,  —  the  wealth  of 
genius ;  honored  among  men,  Avith  a  glorious  harvest  of 
fame  yet  unreapcd  before  him,  —  that  he  should  love  her, 
who  had  nothing  to  give  but  a  heart  that  worshipjjcd 
him !  The  girl,  in  her  humility,  felt  unworthy  of  such 
deep  haj)j)in('ss;  all  that  her  lips  would  utter  were  the 
blessed,  joyful  words,  "  He  loves  me,  —  he  loves  mc  !  my 


THE    liOSlCRUCIAN.  9^3 

Basil,  niine  own !  "    Aiid  even  iu  her  sleep  she  murmured 
the  same. 

Man's  love  is  not  like  woman's,  yet  Basil  was  very 
happy,  —  liappier  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  The 
student,  the  philosopher,  felt  that  all  his  wisdom  was  as 
nothing  compared  to  the  wondrous  alchemy  of  love.  So 
far  from  being  weakened,  his  lofty  mind  seemed  to  grow 
richer  beneath  the  light  of  beloved  eyes  ;  it  was  like  the 
sunshine  to  the  ripening  corn.  Basil  now  knew  how 
long  Isilda  had  filled  his  thoughts,  and  been  mingled 
with  all  his  hopes.  He  did  not  even  then  fathom  the 
depths  of  her  spirit,  but  he  felt  it  was  one  with  his ;  and 
man,  proud  man,  ever  rejoices  to  see  his  soul's  image 
reflected  in  a  woman's  heart. 


III. 

A  YEAE,  had  passed  over  the  head  of  the  student  of 
Cologne.  It  had  been  a  year  full  of  changes.  Death 
liad  entered  the  house  and  taken  the  tender  mother ;  the 
strong-hearted  but  gentle  matron,  who  had  filled  the 
place  of  both  parents  toward  Basil  and  Margareta  in 
their  fatherless  youth.  The  student  had  now  only  his 
sister  to  cheer  his  desolate  home;  and  little  joy  was 
there  in  the  young  girl's  heart,  or  brightness  on  her  face, 
for  she  was  still  in  the  shadow  of  past  sorrow,  her  first 
grief,  too ;  and  heaviiy  it  weighed  upon  sweet  Margareta. 

Have  we  forgotten  Isilda,  the  beautiful,  the  beloved  ? 
No  change  had  taken  place  in  her.  She  was  now  the 
betrothed  of  Basil  Wolgemuth,  loving  him  with  a  depth 
and  steadfastness  far  beyond  the  first  fresh  love  of  girl- 


94}  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

hood  and  romance.  And  Basil  liiinself,  was  he  still  the 
same  ?     Let  us  see. 

The  student  was  sitting-,  as  we  first  beheld  him,  in  the 
room  more  peculiarly  liis  own ;  it  looked  the  same  as  in 
former  days ;  and  the  fire,  the  brilliant  and  beautiful  fire, 
which  Basil  loved  to  have  as  a  comimnion  for  his  solitary 
hours,  burned  brightly  as  ever.  He  kept  continually  feed- 
ing it  with  new  brands,  and  often  looked  up  from  his  book 
to  gaze  at  it.  If  the  blaze  grew  dim  for  a  moment,  it 
seemed  as  if  his  powers  of  intellect  and  comprehension 
grew  dim  with  it.  Basil  was  dull  and  cheerless  without 
]iis  beloved  fire  ;  he  needed  its  genial  warmth,  its  inspir- 
ing brightness ;  even  in  the  summer-time  he  could  not 
study  without  it ;  and  so  it  had  been  from  his  childliood. 

There  was  a  change  in  the  young  man,  more  tlian  tlie 
one  short  year  added  to  his  age  could  have  effected.  He 
looked  like  a  man  who  had  thouglit  much,  suffered  much. 
An  expression  of  pain  constantly  hovered  over  his  fea- 
tures, and  the  lines  of  his  bccnutiful  moutb  were  con- 
tracted. He  read  intently;  but  at  intervals  laid  down 
the  book,  and  fixed  his  eyes  vacantly  on  the  fire,  absorbed 
in  thought. 

A  light  knock  at  the  door  broke  in  upon  tlie  student's 
meditations,  and  a  stranger  entered.  He  was  a  man  of 
middle  age,  tall,  spare,  and  meagre.  His  face  was  calm, 
and  his  bearing  dignified ;  while  on  his  noble  forehead, 
whicli  bore  not  a  single  wrinkle,  uamistakablc  intellect 
sat  cntlironed;  but  at  times  there  was  a  wildness  in  his 
eyes,  and  a  sudden  kindling  of  liis  features,  which  almost 
belied  his  serene  deportment.  He  advanccul  towards  the 
young  man,  who  arose  and  groctc'd  hiiu  Nvilh  dec])  respect. 


THE    EOSICIIUCIAN.  95 

"  Michael  Meyer  need  not  stay  to  ask  admittance  of 
Basil  Wolgeinutli,  I  trust  ?  "  said  the  stranger,  in  tones 
of  mingled  gentleness  and  conscious  dignity. 

"My  master,"  answered  Basil,  meekly,  "thou  art 
ever  most  welcome ;  all  that  is  mine  is  thine  also." 

"I  thank  thee,  gentle  scholar,"  returned  the  other, 
simply,  with  a  shght  inclination  of  the  head,  as  he  suf- 
fered the  young  man  to  take  from  him  his  outer  garment, 
and  sat  down  on  the  chair  which  Basil  offered.  The 
student  himself  continued  standing  until  his  guest  pointed 
to  a  low  stool,  where  Basil  placed  himself  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  his  master. 

"And  now  let  us  talk,"  said  Michael  Meyer;  "for  it 
is  long  since  I  have  seen  thee.  What  hast  thou  learned 
meanwhile  ?  " 

"  Much,  O  master  !  I  have  been  studying  thy  book." 
And  he  pointed  to  the  open  page. 

A  gleam  of  pleasure  illuminated  Michael's  sallow  fea- 
tures. "  And  dost  thou  ever  regret  that  thou  hast 
become  one  of  us,  one  of  the  brethren  of  the  Bosie 
Cross  ? " 

"  Never,  honored  master  mine,"  cried  the  student ; 
"  but  I  have  yet  so  much  to  learn,  before  I  am  worthy 
even  to  kiss  the  hem  of  thy  garment ;  and  I  am  so 
young." 

"  It  may  be  that  a  young  heart  is  purer  than  one  which 
has  longer  mingled  with  the  world.  Thou  hast  not  yet 
travelled  out  of  sight  of  the  home  which  thy  spirit  left  at 
birth ;  the  memory  of  that  pristine  existence  dimly  re- 
mains with  thee  still.  Therefore  it  is  well  with  thee, 
BasU." 


90  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  IMaster,  if  I  could  only  tliiiik  so,  —  if  I  could  only 
revive  within  me  that  higher  life,  —  but  I  fear  it  is 
hard." 

"It  is  hard,  my  son ;  for  it  is  a  struggle  of  matter 
against  spirit.  O,  didst  thou  but  know  the  joys  that  are 
opened  unto  us  who  mortify  the  body  for  the  sake  of  the 
soul ;  the  glorious  and  beautiful  world  that  is  revealed 
to  us,  —  a  life  within  life,  a  double  existence,  our  mor- 
tal eyes  being  strengthened  to  behold  the  Invisible, 
—  our  mortal  frames  endowed  with  the  powers  of  an- 
gels !  " 

"It  is  glorious  —  glorious  !  "  murmured  the  student 
as  he  gazed  on  his  master,  whose  whole  countenance 
gleamed  with  enthusiasm. 

"  It  is  indeed  glorious,"  continued  Michael  Meyer. 
"To  be  as  a  god  to  mankind;  to  bear  in  this  liunian 
body  the  gift  of  healing;  to  know  that  the  riches  for 
which  men  toil,  and  })ine,  and  slay  one  another,  are  at 
our  will  in  such  abundance  that  they  seem  to  us  like 
dust.  And  more  than  all,  to  have  the  power  of  holding 
communion  with  tliosc  good  spirits  which  God  created 
as  he  created  man,  more  beautiful  and  yet  less  perfect, 
for  they  must  remain  as  first  made,  while  man  may  rise 
througli  various  stages  of  existence,  higher  and  higher, 
until  he  reach  tlie  footstool  of  divinity  itself." 

"  Ilast  tliou  ever  seen  those  glorious  behigs  ?  "  asked 
Basil,  glancing  doubtfully  round,  his  voice  sinking  into  a 
low  Avliisper. 

"  1  have  !  "  answered  Michael  Meyer.  "  But  no  more 
of  this.  To  attain  this  state  of  perfection,  thou  must 
needs  deaden  thyself  to  all  human  pleasures;  thou  must 


THE    ROSICRUCIAX.  97 

forsake  tlie  grossiiess  of  an  appetite  pampered  vrith  tlie 
ilesli  of  beasts  and  the  fruit  of  the  poison-vine.  As 
tliou  readest  in  my  book,  the  soul  must  retire  within 
itself,  —  must  shut  out  all  human  feelings,  all  human 
love." 

A  dark  shadow  came  over  the  young  student's  face. 

"  Must  one  attain  all  this,  O  father,  to  be  a  follower 
of  Christian  Rosencreutz  ?  "  * 

"  All  this,  and  more.  Does  thy  heart  fail  thee  ?  "  said 
Michael,  sternly. 

Basil  cast  down  liis  eyes. 

"  No,  my  noble  master,  no  !  but  human  will  is  feeble, 
and  the  steep  is  hard  to  climb." 

"  Then  lie  down,  and  perish  at  its  foot,  Basil  TTolge- 
muth,"  said  the  Rosicrucian ;  and  then  added,  with  a  re- 
gretful tone,  "After  thou  hadst  journeyed  half-way,  I 
had  not  thought  thy  heart  would  have  failed  thee,  my 
son." 

"  It  has  not  failed  me,"  cried  the  student,  earnestly. 
"  I  have  followed  implicitly  all  thy  precepts.  No  food, 
save  what  nature  rigorously  requires,  has  passed  these 
lips ;  I  have  kept  myself  pure  as  a  little  child,  yet  still 
I  seem  further  than  ever  from  that  blessed  state  when 
the  soul  is  free  from  all  mortal  longings,  and  the  eyes 
are  purged  to  behold  the  Invisible." 

*  After  the  death  of  Christian  Rosencreutz,  their  founder, 
the  sect  of  the  Rosicrucians  kept  their  doctrines  secret  for  a 
hundred  and  twenty  years.  Michael  Meyer,  an  alchemist  and 
physician,  was  the  first  to  reveal  their  secrets,  by  a  book  en- 
titled "  Themis  Aurea,  hoc  est  de  legibus  Fraternitatis  Rosse 
Crucis,"  which  he  published  at  Cologne  in  1615. 

VOL.  VII.  5  G 


OS  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Wait,  my  son  ;  wait  and  faiut  not !  tlie  time  will 
surely  come  at  last ;  and  when  it  does,  oh,  what  joy  for 
thee  !  Thou  wilt  count  as  nothing  the  pleasures  of  taste, 
when  thou  mayst  banquet  on  celestial  food;  thou  wilt 
scorn  all  earthly  loveliness,  to  bask  in  tlie  smile  of  im- 
mortal beauty.  This,  indeed,  is  an  aim  worthy  of  man's 
aspiring." 

"  It  is  —  it  is  !  O  master,  I  follow  thee  !  —  teach  me, 
guide  me  as  thou  wilt."  And  he  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the 
Rosicrucian,  kissing  his  hands  and  his  garments  with 
deep  emotion. 

"  Thou  art  worthy  to  become  one  of  us,  my  son,  —  nay, 
my  brother,  —  for  thou  wilt  erelong  equal  the  wisest  of 
us,"  answered  Michael  Meyer,  as  he  raised  Basil  from  the 
earth.  "  Go  on  in  that  noble  path  ;  thou  hast  little  need 
of  me,  for  thine  own  soul  is  thy  best  teacher.  Now 
farewell,  for  this  night  I  leave  Cologne;  my  work  is  ac- 
complished, and  I  have  added  one  more  to  the  brethren 
of  the  Rosie  Cross." 

"  And  hast  thou  no  word,  no  parting  admonition,  for 
me,  O  my  father?  "  ' 

"None,  save  this:  Strive  ever  after  the  highest; 
content  thyself  with  nothing  below  perfection ;  be 
humble  in  thine  otvti  eyes ;  and  more  than  all,  keep 
thy  heart  and  hand  from  evil :  sin  clouds  the  soul's 
aspirations;  and  the  highest  life  is  a  life  of  perfect 
holiness.  With  thy  noble  intellect  and  ardent  mind, 
keep  an  unspotted  heart !  —  and  so  fare  thee  well,  my 
.soil." 

Tims  ^lichacl  Meyer  the  liosicrucian  parted  from  Ba. 
sil  Wolgemutli. 


THE    ROSICRUCIAN.  99 


IV. 


Passionately  wringing  his  hands,  or  pressing  them 
upon  liis  hot  brow,  knelt  the  student  alone  in  his  cham- 
ber. He  muttered  wild  tones.  He  had  yearned  after 
the  tree  of .  knowledge  ;  he  had  penetrated  within  its 
shadow,  and  it  had  darkened  his  soul,  yet  lie  had  not 
tasted  of  its  dehcious  fruit  for  which  he  so  longed. 

"It  is  vain, — it  is  vain!"  cried  Basil;  "I  strive, 
but  I  cannot  attaui.  I  have  cast  all  human  bliss  to  the 
winds ;  I  have  poisoned  my  youth,  —  and  thine,  too, 
Isilda,  joy  of  my  life  !  — and  all  in  vain.  No  immortal 
gifts  are  mine,  —  I  would  fain  pierce  into  Nature's 
depths,  but  she  hides  her  face  from  me.  O  my  master  ! 
thou  didst  tell  me  of  the  world  of  spirits  which  would 
surely  be  revealed  unto  me.  I  look  up  into  the  air,  but 
no  sylphs  breathe  soft  zephyrs  upon  my  hot  cheek ;  I 
wander  by  the  streams,  but  no  sweet  eyes,  looking  out 
from  the  depths  of  the  fomitains,  meet  my  own ;  I  am 
poor,  bat  the  gnomes  of  the  earth  answer  not  my  bidding 
with  treasures  of  silver  and  gold.  And  thou,  0  Fire, 
glorious  element !  art  thou  indeed  peopled  with  tbese 
wonderful  beings ;  or  are  they  deaf  to  my  voice,  and  in- 
visible to  my  eyes  alone,  of  all  my  brethren  ?  " 

And  lo !  as  the  student  spoke,  a  bright  pyramid  of 
flame  darted  upward,  and  a  voice,  like  that  of  the  fire 
when  it  answers  the  soft  breathing  of  the  winds,  re- 
pUed,  — 

"  I  hear  thee,  —  what  wouldst  thou  with  me  ?  " 

A  paleness  came  over  the  young  man's  cheek,  and  he 
drew  back  involuntarily. 


100  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Dost  thou  then  fear  me,  O  mortal !  "  said  the  voice 
again,  saclly.     "Look  again." 

Suddenly  the  pyramidal  flame  was  cloven  asunder,  and 
there  appeared  in  its  centre  a  form,  smaller  than  that  of 
humanity,  but  perfect  in  feminine  lo\enness.  Wavy 
wreaths  of  golden  flame  fell  around  her  like  a  woman's 
beautiful  hair,  and  about  her  semi-transparent  form 
twined  an  amber  vesture,  resembling  in  hue  and  airy 
substance  the  fire  from  which  she  sprung.  Her  hands 
were  folded  submissively  on  her  breast,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  earnestly  on  the  young  student's  face  as  she 
again  repeated,  — 

"  Dost  thou  fear  me  now  ?  " 

"How  should  I  fear  thee,  beautiful  vision?"  cried 
Basil  in  ecstasy  ;  "  and  what  am  I,  that  thou  shouldst 
deign  to  visit  me  thus  ?  " 

"Thinkest  thou  that  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  vis- 
ited thee  ? "  said  the  Form.  "  I  have  been  with  thee, 
unseen,  from  thy  childhood.  When,  in  thy  boyish  days, 
thou  wouldot  sit  gazing  on  the  beautiful  element  which 
I  rule,  and  from  which  I  proceed,  it  was  I  who  made  it 
assume  in  thy  fancy  strange  and  lovely  shapes.  It  was 
my  voice  thou  heardest  in  the  musical  breathing  of  the 
flames,  until  thou  didst  love  the  beautiful  fire  ;  and  it  be- 
came  to  thee  the  source  of  inspiration.  All  this  was  my 
doing." 

"And  now  at  last  I  behold  thee,  glorious  creature  !  " 
exclaimed  the  student  with  rapture.  "How  shall  I 
thank  thee  for  thus  watching  over  me  invisibly,  and  at 
last  revealing  Ihysclf  to  me  !  " 

"We   do   but  tlie   will   of  our   Creator,"   answered 


THE    ROSICRUCIAN.  101 

the  Salamaiidrine*  "I  and  my  kindred  are  His  off- 
spring, even  as  man ;  but  our  being  differs  from  thine ; 
superior  and  yet  how  inferior !  We  tend  thee,  we  in- 
fluence thee,  we  guide  thee,  —  m  this  doing  alike  His 
command  who  made  us,  and  our  own  pleasure ;  for  our 
natures  are  purer  and  better  than  thine." 

"I  feel  it,"  said  Basil.  "I  cannot  look  upon  thy 
all-perfect  loveliness  without  knowing  that  such  a  form 
must  be  the  visible  reflection  of  a  soul  equally  pure  and 
beautiful." 

"A  soul!""  sighed  the  fire -spirit ;  "alas!  this  bless- 
ing is  not  ours.  We  see  generation  after  generation  of 
men  perish  from  the  face  of  earth ;  we  watch  them  from 
their  cradles  into  their  graves,  and  still  we  are  the  same, 
our  beauty  uufaded,  our  power  unchanged.  Yet  we 
know  there  must  come  a  time  when  the  elements  from 
which  we  draw  our  being  must  vanish  away,  and  then 
we  perish  with  them,  for  we  have  no  immortal  souls : 
for  us  there  is  no  after-life !  " 

As  the  Salamandrine  ceased,  the  vapors  of  the  fire 
encircled  her  as  with  a  mist,  and  a  wailing  came  from 
the  red  caverns  of  flame,  as  of  spirits  in  grief,  the  burden 
of  which  was  ever,  — 

"Alas  for  us  !  — we  have  no  after-life." 

"Is  it  even  so?"  said  the  student.  "Then  are  ye 
unhappy  in  the  midst  of  your  divine  existence." 

The  mist  which  veiled  the  Salamandrine  floated  aside, 
and  she  stood  once  more  revealed  in  her  superhuman 
beauty. 

"Not  unhappy,"  she  answered,  with  a  radiant  and 
celestial  smile,  — "  not  unhappy,  since  we  are  the  ser- 


102  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

vants  of  our  beneficent  Creator;  we» perform  His  will, 
and  in  that  consists  our  happiness.  We  suffer  no  pain, 
no  care ;  doing  no  sin,  we  have  no  sorrow ;  our  life  is  a 
life  of  love  to  each  other  and  to  man,  whose  ministers 
we  are.     Are  we  not  then  happy  ?  " 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  Basil,  thoughtfully.  "Ye  are 
the  creatures  of  Him  who  never  made  aught  but  good." 
And  he  bowed  his  head  in  deep  meditation,  while  there 
arose  from  the  mystic  fire  an  ethereal  chorus;  melo- 
diously it  pealed  upon  the  opened  ears  of  the  enrap- 
tured student. 

The  spirits  sang  of  praise;  of  the  universal  hymn 
which  nature  lifts  up  to  the  Origin  of  all  good ;  of  the 
perfect  harmony  of  all  His  works,  from  the  mighty 
planets  that  roll  through  illimitable  space,  down  to  the 
fresh  green  moss  that  springs  up  at  the  foot  of  the  way- 
faring child ;  of  the  world  of  spirits,  —  those  essences 
which  people  the  earth  and  float  in  the  air  like  motes 
in  the  sunbeam,  invisible,  but  yet  poAverful ;  how  the 
good  spirits  strive  with  the  fallen  ones  for  dominion  over 
man,  and  how  the  struggle  must  continue  until  evil  is 
permitted  to  be  overcome  of  good,  and  the  earth  be- 
comes all  holy,  worthy  to  be  the  habitation  of  glorified 
beings. 

"Happy  art  thou,  O  man!"  tlioy  sang.  "Even  in 
thy  infirmity,  what  is  like  unto  thee?  And  earthly  life 
is  thine,  half  the  sorrow  of  wliicli  tl)ou  mayst  remove 
by  patience  and  love  ;  an  earthly  death  is  thine,  which 
i.s  tlu;  cut  ranee  to  immortality.  It  is  ours  to  guide  thee 
to  tliat  gate  of  heaven  which  we  ourselves  may  never 
enter/' 


THE    llOSICRUCIAN.  103 

And  all  the  spirits  sang  in  a  strain  that  died  away  as 
the  fire  sunk  smouldering  down,  "Blessed  art  thou,  O 
.nan  !  —  strong  in  thy  weakness,  happy  in  thy  sufferings. 
Thrice  blessed  art  thou  !  " 

The  student  was  roused  from  his  trance  by  a  light 
footstep.  A  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  soft 
woman's  voice  whispered,  — 

"  Art  thou  then  here  all  alone,  and  in  darkness,  my 
Basil  ? " 

"  All  was  light  with  me,  —  the  darkness  came  with 
thee,"  answered  the  student,  harshly,  like  one  roused 
from  delicious  slumbers  by  an  unwelcome  hand ;  —  and 
yet  the  hand  was  none  other  than  Isilda's. 

"  Once  thou  used  to  call  me  thy  light  of  life,  Basil," 
murmured  the  girl.     "  I  would  not  come  to  anger  thee." 

It  was  too  dark  to  discern  faces ;  but  as  Isilda  turned 
to  depart,  Basil  thought  she  was  weeping,  and  his  heart 
melted.  What  would  he  not  have  given,  at  the  moment, 
for  the  days  of  old,  —  the  feelings  of  old,  when  he  would 
have  drawn'her  to  his  bosom,  and  soothed  her  there  with 
the  assurances  of  never-ending  love.  But  now  he  dared 
not ;  the  link  between  him  and  earth  was  broken.  He 
thought  of  the  immortal  gift  just  acquired,  and  he  would 
not  renounce  its  ecstatic  joys,  —  no,  not  even  for  Isdda. 
He  took  her  hand  kindly,  but  coldly,  saying,  — 

"  Forgive  me ;  I  have  been  studying,  —  dreaming ;  I 
did  not  mean  to  say  thou  wert  unwelcome." 

"  Bless  thee  for  that,  my  Basil,  my  beloved ! "  cried 
the  girl,  weeping,  as  she  pressed  his  hand  passionately 
to  her  heart  and  her  lips.  "  Thou  couldst  not  be  unkind 
to  me,  —  to  thy  betrothed  wife." 


104  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Basil  turned  away ;  he  could  not  tell  her  that  the  tie 
was  now  only  a  name ;  and  Isilda  went  on,  — 

"  Thou  hast  not  looked  the  same  of  late ;  thou  art  too 
anxious ;  or  thou  hast  some  hidden  sorrow  upon  thee. 
Tell  it  to  me,  my  Basil,"  she  continued,  caressingly. 
"  Who  should  share  and  Ughten  it  but  I,  who  love  thee 
so  ? " 

"  Dost  thou  indeed  love  me  so  well,  Isilda  ?  " 

"Thou  art  my  all,  —  my  life,  —  my  soul!  It  were 
death  itself  to  part  from  thee,"  cried  the  girl,  in  a  burst 
of  impassioned  feeling,  as  she  knelt  beside  the  bending 
form  of  her  lover,  and  strove  to  wind  her  arms  round 
his  neck.  She  liardly  dared  to  do  so  now  to  him  who 
had  once  wooed  that  fondness  with  so  many  prayers. 

"  Woe  is  me,  alas  !  "  muttered  the  student.  "  Must 
thou  also  be  sacrificed,  Isilda  ?  " 

She  did  not  hear  his  words,  but  she  felt  him  unclasp 
her  arms  from  his  neck ;  and  Isilda  sank  insensible  at 
Basil's  feet. 

The  die  was  cast.  Slowly  the  student  laid  her  down, 
—  her,  the  once  beloved,  —  on  the  cold  floor.  He  called 
"  Margarcta !  "  and  before  his  sister  entered,  went  out 
into  the  open  air. 

.     V. 

Basil  Wolgemutii  had  now  gained  the  summit  of  his 
wishes.  He  had  panted  for  the  river  of  knowledge,  — 
liad  found  it,  and  allayed  his  burnhig  thirst  in  its  waters, 
which  wore  to  him  a  Lethe,  bringing  oblivion  of  all  else. 
He  walked  as  one  in  a  dream,  or  like  the  false  prophet 
of  old,  falling  into  a  trance,  but  having  his  eyes  open. 


THE    ROSICRUCIAN.  105 

He  was  gentle  to  liis  sister,  and  to  the  patient,  sorrowful 
Isilda ;  but  he  shrank  from  their  society,  as  he  did  from 
that  of  every  living  soul.  He  would  disappear  for  days 
together,  wandermg  in  the  woods  and  mountains,  far 
from  his  home.  There  the  student  was  alone,  with  his 
newly  acquired  sense,  —  there  he  penetrated  into  the 
marvels  of  the  invisible  world.  He  saw  the  Sylphs  of 
the  air  floating  over  him,  and  fanning  his  slumbers  with 
their  ambrosial  wings.  The  beautiful  Undines  spread 
their  cool,  wavy  arms  around  him,  and  through  the 
riven  earth  he  beheld  the  Gnomes  and  Cobolds  at  work 
in  their  treasure-caves.  Borne  by  the  Salamandrines, 
he  viewed  the  caves  of  the  volcanoes;  their  lurid  re- 
cesses were  exposed  to  his  gaze,  and  he  saw  the  central 
fires  smouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  globe,  —  the 
cradles  of  the  earthquake. 

Then,  when  the  student  returned,  he  would  shut  him- 
self up  in  his  chamber,  and  invoke  the  being  who  had 
first  appeared  to  him,  —  the  Salamandrine.  He  imbibed 
from  her  hps  wisdom  beyond  that  of  man;  he  sunned 
himself  in  the  light  of  her  glorious  beauty,  and  became 
insensible  to  all  earthly  things. 

"O  my  master,"  Basil  woidd  often  murmur,  "thou 
wert  right !  Wliat  count  I  now  the  cup  of  mortal  pleas- 
ure while  that  of  heaven  is  at  my  lips  ?  I  could  torture, 
almost  destroy  this  poor  frail  body  for  the  sake  of  my 
soul." 

And  while  the  student  revelled  in  these  ecstasies,  his 

slight  form  grew  more  shadowy,  his  dreamy  eyes  became 

of  a  more  fatliomless  depth,  and  his  whole  appearance 

was  that  of  a  ?;vvit  which  had  for  a  season  assumed  this 

5* 


106  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

mortal  coil.  No  thought  of  Isilda,  no  yearnmg  for  her 
forsaken  love,  crossed  his  memory  ;  the  lesser  feeling  was 
all  absorbed  in  the  greater,  for  the  one  reigning  passion 
of  Basil  Wolgemuth's  soul  was  a  thirst  after  knowledge. 
And  Isilda,  the  devoted  one,  how  fared  it  with  her  ? 
She  knew  that  no  other  maiden  had  stolen  her  lover's 
heart,  and  yet  it  was  changed  toward  her.  She  saw  it 
to  be  so.  Some  overpowering  passion  had  extinguislicd 
that  of  love ;  and  her  life's  hope  was  gone.  She  did  not 
pine  nor  weep ;  she  felt  no  anger  towards  Basil,  for  in 
her  eyes  he  could  do  no  wrong.  Isilda  had  worshipped 
him  from  her  girlhood,  with  a  love  mixed  with  idolatry, 
for  it  long  seemed  like  "  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  tlie 
star."  None  other  had  ever  won  a  thought  from  the 
maiden,  though  many  had  wooed  her;  but  having  once 
loved  him,  none  else  could  have  filled  her  heart  forever. 
Even  Basil,  when  he  came  to  measure  her  love  by  his 
own,  dreamed  not  of  its  intensity.  So  absorbing  was 
this  one  passionate  love,  that  even  the  sad  change  in  him 
who  was  its  object  could  not  weaken  it.  She  desired 
no  more  but  to  be  near  her  betrothed ;  to  see  him ;  to 
hover  round  him  as  silently  as  his  shadow,  —  only  to  have 
the  blessed  privilege  of  loving  him,  and  the  memory, 
sweet  though  mournful,  that  he  had  once  loved  her. 


VI. 

Basil  Wolgemuth  lay  asleep  on  liis  couch.  He  had 
outwatchcd  midnight,  and  was  very  weary.  The  fol- 
lower of  llosencreutz,  the  philosoplier,  the  man  of  genius, 
li;;d  not  ]);issod  tlio  limits  of  mortality;  his  oarth-vrsture 


THE    ROSICIIUCIAN.  107 

clung  about  hiin  still.  Fatigue  liacl  overtaken  liini  iu 
the  midst  of  his  vigils ;  lie  had  thrown  himself  down  on 
the  liard  pallet,  and  fallen  ^asleep,  as  sound  as  if  the  rude 
couch  of  the  Rosicrucian  were  the  monarch's  bed  of 
down.  The  morning  stars  looked  in  at  his  casement, 
and  the  dim  light  of  a  single  lamp  fell  on  the  counte- 
nance of  the  student.  He  lay  calm  as  a  little  child. 
With  folded  hands,  as  if  his  mother  had  lulled  him  to 
sleep  with  songs.  O,  if  that  mother  could  have  beheld 
him  now,  how  would  she  have  wept  over  the  child  of  so 
maiiy  prayers ! 

I  have  said  before  that  there  was  httle  beauty  in 
Basil's  face,  at  least  that  mere  beauty  of  form,  W'liich  is 
so  dazzling,  —  and  it  is  good  that  it  should  be  so,  for  a 
lovely  face  seems  fresh  from  the  impress  of  God's  hand  ; 
we  naturally  love  it,  cling  to  it,  and  worship  it  as  such. 
But  Basil's  sole  charm  had  been  the  genius  so  plainly 
visible  in  his  face,  and  a  sunny,  youthful,  happy  look, 
which  made  it  pleasant  to  behold.  Now,  all  this  was 
long  gone.  But  while  he  slept,  a  little  of  his  olden  self 
returned ;  a  smile  wandered  over  his  lips,  and  his  sunny 
hair  fell  carelessly,  as  in  the  days  when  Isilda's  fingers 
used  to  part  it,  and  kiss  his  white,  beautiful  forehead. 
Suddenly  a  red  glare  lighted  up  the  still  shadow  of  the 
chamber,  —  it  flashed  on  the  eyes  of  the  sleeper. 

"  Art  thou  here,  O  spirit  ? "  murmured  Basil,  half 
roused,  and  dazzled  by  the  brilliant  light,  w^hlch  seemed 
a  continuation  of  his  dream. 

But  it  was  no  celestial  presence  that  shone  into  the 
student's  room.  He  awoke  fully,  rose  up,  and  looked 
out  into  the  night.     The  city  lay  hushed   beneath  the 


108  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

starlight  like  a  palace  of  tlie  dead;  it  seemed  as  Uiougli 
no  mortal  turmoil  Mould  ever  more  ruffle  its  serene  re- 
pose. But  far  doAvn  the  dark  street,  in  a  direction 
where  Basil's  eyes  had  in  former  times  been  fondly 
turned  waiting  for  the  one  solitary  lamp  which  was  to 
him  like  a  star,  lurid  flames  and  white  smoke  burst  forth, 
and  contended  with  the  gloom  around.  There  was  in 
the  city  the  fearful  presence  of  fire,  and  the  burning 
house  was  Isilda's. 

.  With  a  sudden  impulse,  Basil  leaped  at  once  through 
the  low  window,  and  fled  rather  than  ran  to  the  scene. 
This  time  human  love  had  the  pre-eminence ;  he  forgot 
all  but  Isilda,  —  Isilda  perishing  in  the  flames  ! 

Wildly  raged  the  fierce  element,  as  if  kindled  by  a 
hundred  demons,  who  fanned  it  with  their  fiery  breath, 
and  leaped,  and  howled,  and  shouted,  as  it  spread  on 
with  mad  swiftness.  Now  it  writhed  in  serpent-coils, 
now  it  darted  upwards  in  forked  tongues,  and  now  it 
made  itself  a  veil  of  dusky  vapors,  and  beneath  that 
sliade  went  on  in  its  devastathig  way.  Its  glare  jmt  out 
the  dim  stars  overhead,  and  hung  on  the  skirts  of  the 
clouds  that  were  driven  past,  until  the  sky  itself  seemed 
in  flames.  House  after  house  caught  the  blaze,  and 
cries  of  despair,  mingled  with  shrieks  of  frantic  terror, 
rose  up  tiirough  the  horrible  stillness  of  night.  The 
beautiful  element  which  Basil  had  so  loved  —  the  cheer- 
ing, inspiring  fire  —  was  turned  into  a  fearful  scourge. 

The  student  reached  the  spot,  and  looked  wildly  up  to 
the  window  he  had  so  often  watched.  A  passing  gust 
blew  the  flames  aside,  and  he  distinguished  tiierc  a  while 
figure,  — it  was  Isilda.     Her  hands  were  crossed  on  her 


THE    ROSICUUCIAN.  109 

bosom,  and  her  head  was  bowed  meekly,  as  if  she  knew 
tliere  was  no  hope,  and  was  content  to  die. 
•  Basil  saw,  and  in  a  moment  he  had  rushed  into  the 
burning  dwelling.  He  gained  the  room,  and  with  a  wild 
cry  of  joy,  Isilda  sprung  into  his  arms.  Without  a 
word,  he  bore  her,  insensible  as  she  was,  through  the 
smoke  and  flame,  to  a  spot  where  the  fire  had  not 
reached.  Farther  he  could  not  go,  for  his  strength 
failed  him.  He  laid  his  burden  down,  and  leaned  against 
the  wall. 

"  I  might  not  live  for  thee,  Isilda,"  cried  the  student, 
"but  I  can  die  for  thee.  Yet  is  there  no  help,  —  no 
hope?  Where  are  the  spirits  that  were  once  subject 
unto  me  ?  And  thou,  my  guardian,  —  spirit  of  lire  !  — 
is  this  thy  work?     Where  art  thou?" 

"  I  am  here  !  "  answered  a  voice ;  and  the  Salamau- 
drine  appeared.  The  flames  drew  nearer,  and  Basil  saw 
myriads  of  aerial  shapes  flitting  among  them  in  mazy 
wreaths.  They  came  nigh, — they  hovered  over  his  mor- 
tal love,  —  their  robes  of  seeming  flame  swept  her  form. 

"Touch  her  not!  "  shrieked  the  student,  as  he  bent 
over  Isilda,  his  human  fear  overpowering  him. 

"  The  good  and  pure  like  her  are  ever  safe,"  replied 
the  Salaniandrine.  "We  harm  her  not."  And  she 
breathed  over  the  maiden,  who  awoke. 

"  O  my  Basil ! "  murmured  the  girl,  "  is  death  then 
past  ?  Thou  didst  come  to  save  me,  —  thou  lovest  me, 
—  thou  art  mine  again  !  "  And  she  stretched  out  to  him 
her  loving  arms  ;  but  Basil  turned  away. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  said,  "  dost  thou  not  see  them,  —  the 
spirits  ?  " 


110  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Isilda  looked  round  fearfully.  "  I  see  nothing,  —  only 
thee." 

The  student's  eyes  flashed  Tvith  msanity.  "  See  !  " 
he  cried,  "  they  fill  the  air,  they  gather  round  us,  they 
come  between  thee  and  me.  Now,  —  now  their  forms 
grow  fainter,  —  they  are  vanishing,  —  it  is  thou,  woman  ! 
who  art  driving  them  from  my  sight  forever.  Stay, 
glorious  beings,  stay!     I  give  up  all, — even  her." 

"  Nothing  shall  part  me  from  thee  ! "  shrieked  the 
girl,  as  she  clung  to  her  lover,  and  wound  her  arms 
round  him.  "  No  power  in  heaven  or  earth  shall  tear  us 
asunder,  —  thou  art  mine,  Basil,  —  let  me  live  for  thee, 

—  die  for  thee." 

"  Thou  shalt  have  thy  desire  !  "  the  student  cried,  as 
he  struggled  in  her  frantic  clasp. 

There  was  the  gleam  of  steel,  —  one  faint,  bubbling 
sigh,  —  the  arms  relaxed  their  hold,  and  Basil  was  alone, 

—  with  the  dead  ! 

The  fire  stayed  in  its  dire  path,  and  a  wailing  sound 
rose  as  the  spirits  fled  away.  Heaven  and  earth  had 
alike  forsaken  the  murderer. 

He  knelt  beside  his  victim ;  he  wept,  he  laughed,  he 
screamed  ;  for  madness  was  in  his  brain. 

"I  may  clasp  thee  now,  Isilda,"  he  shouted,  "thou 
art  all  my  own  !  "  And  he  strained  the  cold,  still  form 
to  his  breast,  kissing  the  hps  and  cheeks  witli  passionate 
vehemence. 

"  I  will  make  thee  a  pyre,  —  a  noble  funereal  pyre," 
he  continued  ;  "  I  will  purify  this  mortal  clay,  and  thou 
shalt  become  a  spirit,  Isilda,  —  a  beautiful,  immortal 
spirit." 


THE    llOSICELXIAX.  Ill 

He  bore  the  dead  to  wlicre  the  fire  raged  fiercest ;  he 
laid  his  beloved  on  a  coucli ;  composed  the  frigid  limbs, 
folded  the  hands,  and,  kissing  the  cold  lips  once  more, 
retired  to  a  distance,  while  the  flames  played  round  the 
still  beautiful  form  that  was  once  Isilda.  Lovingly  they 
inwreatlied  and  enshrouded  it,  until  at  last  they  con- 
cealed it  from  the  student's  gaze.  He  turned  and  fled. 
The  fire  hid  in  its  mysterious  bosom  the  ashes  of  that 
noble  and  devoted  heart.  Isilda  had  found  the  death 
she  once  thought  so  blest,  —  death  by  the  hand  of  the 
beloved. 

Yll. 

Fearfully  did  morning  dawn  on  the  eyes  of  the  mur- 
derer. He  had  regamed  his  chamber  unobserved,  and 
there  he  crouched  in  its  most  gloomy  nook.  His  frenzy 
had  passed  away,  and  left  the  freezing  coldness  of  de- 
spair. The  darkness  was  terrible  to  him,  and  yet  when 
the  light  of  morning  came,  he  shrank  from  it  in  horror, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  garments  to  shut  out  the  fear- 
ful glare.  All  day  he  remained  .motionless.  Margareta's 
loud  weeping  came  to  him  from  within.  From  her 
brother's  bolted  door,  she  thought  he  had  departed  on 
one  of  his  usual  rambles,  and  Basil  heard  his  name  re- 
peated often,  mingled  with  Isilda's,  —  whom  all  sup- 
posed to  have  perished  in  the  flames. 

Basil  heard  his  sister's  sobs  ;  but  they  fell  idly  on  his 
stony  ears.  Many  sounds  rose  from  the  street,  —  the 
widow's  cry,  the  orphan's  moan,  and  the  despairing 
lament  of  the  houseless  and  homeless,  —  but  all  were 
nothing  to  him.     He  kept  the  same  immovable  attitude 


ll'Z  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

until  daylight  waned,  and  tlien  he  rose  and  lit  the  lire  on 
liis  heart li. 

Brighter  and  brighter  grew  the  blaze,  and  wilder 
gleamed  the  eyes  of  the  student.  He  swayed  bis  body 
to  and  fro  with  a  low  murmurmg,  and  then  be  passion- 
ately invoked  the  Salamandrine. 

"  The  sacrifice  is  complete  —  I  have  no  bond  to  earth 
—  my  desire  is  free.  Why  delayest  thou,  0  spirit? 
Come,  teach  me ;  let  me  know  the  past.  Give  me  wis- 
dom, —  I  thirst !  —  I  thirst !  Let  me  become  as  a  god 
in  knowledge ! " 

But  the  vision  came  not ;  there  was  no  voice. 

"  Spirit  of  Fire  !  art  thou  deaf  to  me  still  ?  I  have 
done  all,  —  I  liave  broken  every  human  tie,  —  I  have 
become  what  men  would  loathe.  Hear  me,  —  answer 
me,  or  I  die  ! " 

Wreaths  of  dusky  vapor  overshadowed  the  fire,  and 
from  them  proceeded  a  melancholy  voice  :  — 

"  0  mortal,  sin  has  entered  thine  lieart ;  blood  is  on 
thy  hand,  and  tlie  polluted  can  have  no  fellowship  with 
the  pure.     Thine  eyes  may  behold  us  no  more  forever !  " 

A  fearful  shudder  passed  through  the  student's 
frame. 

"  It  is  false  !     Cursed  spirits,  yc  have  deceived  me  !  " 

"  It  is  not  we  wlio  have  deceived  thee,  bat  thine  own 
soul,"  answered  the  Salamandrine.  "We  are  not  evil; 
unseen,  we  would  have  watched  over  thee  thy  whole 
life  tlirough.  It  was  thou  who  didst  long  after  what 
is  permitted  but  to  few,  —  to  hold  connnunc  with  the 
invisil)le.  To  do  this  with  safety,  man  must  keep  a 
heart  pure  as  fearless,  and  sucli  was  not  thine.     Thou 


THE    ROSICllUCIAN.  113 

didst  seek  us, — we  allured  not  thee.  Blame  not  us, 
therefore,  but  thy  own  weakness.  Thou  hast  smneu, 
and  henceforth  we  are  invisible  to  thee  !  " 

"  Woe  !  woe  !  "  cried  Basil,  in  agony ;  "  have  I  then 
lost  all  ?  Adorable  spirit,  guide  of  my  life,  have 
mercy  !  —  forsake  me  not !  " 

"  I  do  not  forsake  thee,  O  poor  mortal !  "  answered 
the  voice,  sadly.  "  I  am  here,  beautiful  and  tender  as 
before ;  but  thou  art  no  longer  able  to  behold  me.  Sin 
has  darkened  thine  eyes,  and  thou  wilt  see  me  no  more 
—  forever." 

"  No  more  ?  "  echoed  the  student  in  tones  of  thrilling 
misery. 

"  No  more,"  replied  the  mournful  accents  of  the 
Salamandriue ;  and  a  faint  chorus,  like  the  sighing  of  the 
wind,  echoed  plaintively,  — 

"  Na  more,  O,  poor  mortal,  no  more  !  " 

The  vapor  swept  away  from  the  fire,  and  the  student 
was  left  to  his  despair. 

VIII. 

Two  days  after  the  temble  fire,  some  who  loved  and 
pitied  the  desolate  Margareta  forcibly  entered  her 
brother's  room.  They  found  Basil  dead.  lie  lay  on 
the  floor,  his  marble  face  upturned  to  their  horror- 
stricken  view.  There  might  have  been  agony  in  his 
last  moments,  for  the  hands  were  tightly  pressed  upon 
the  heart;  but  all  was  calmness  now.  The  features 
had  settled  into  their  eternal  repose.  How  or  when 
the  spirit  parted  none  knew,  save  Him  who  gave  it. 
and   who   had   now  reclaimed   his   mft.     The   book   of 


lU. 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


Michael  Meyer  lay  beside  the  student ;  aud  firmly 
clasped  in  the  stiffened  fingers  was  a  long  tress  of 
woman's  hair.     More  than  tliis,  all  was  mystery. 

Many  years  after,  when  the  memory  of  the  student  of 
Cologne  had  long  been  forgotten,  an  aged  nun  died  in 
a  convent  not  far  from  the  city.  It  was  Margareta,  the 
only  sister  of  Basil  Wolgemuth  the  Rosicrucian. 


THE    SOUTH   BREAKER. 


BY  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


UST  a  capful  of  wind,  and  Dan  shook  loose 
the  linen,  and  a  straight  shining  streak  with 
_  specks  of  foam  shot  after  us.  The  mast  bent 
like  eel-grass,  and  our  keel  was  half  out  of  the  water. 
Faith  belied  her  name,  and  clung  to  the  sides  with  her 
ten  finger-nailf) ;  but  as  for  me,  I  liked  it. 

"Take  the  stick,  Georgie,"  said  Dan,  suddenly,  his 
cheeks  white.  "  Head  her  up  the  wind.  Steady.  Sight 
the  figure-head  on  Pearson's  loft.  Here  's  too  much 
sail  for  a  frigate." 

But  before  the  words  were  well  uttered,  the  mast 
doubled  up  and  coiled  like  a  whip-lash,  there  was  a 
report  like  the  crack  of  doom,  and  half  of  the  thing 
crashed  short  over  the  bows,  dragging  the  heavy  sail 
in  the  waves. 

Then  there  came  a  great  laugh  of  thunder  close  above, 
and  the  black  cloud,  dropped  like  a  curtain  round  us  : 
the  squall  had  broken. 

*'  Cut  it  off,  Dan  !  quick  !  "  I  cried. 

"  Let  it  alone,"  said  he,  snapping  together  his  jack- 


116  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

knife ;  "  it 's  as  good  as  a  best  bower-anchor.  Now 
I  '11  take  the  tiller,  Georgie.  Strong  little  hand/'  said 
he,  bending  so  that  I  didn't  see  his  face.  "And 
lucky  it 's  good  as  strong.  It 's  saved  us  all.  My  God, 
Georgie  !  where 's  Faith  ?  " 

I  turned.  There  was  no  Faith  in  the  boat.  We  both 
sprang  to  our  feet,  and  so  the  tiller  swung  round  and 
threw  us  broadside  to  the  wind,  and  between  the  drag- 
ging mast  and  the  centre-board  drowning  seemed  too 
good  for  us. 

"  You  '11  have  to  cut  it  off,"  I  cried  again ;  .but  he  had 
already  ripped  half  through  the  canvas,  and  was  casting 
it  loose. 

At  length  he  gave  his  arm  a  toss.  With  the  next  mo- 
ment, I  never  shall  forget  the  look  of  horror  that  froze 
Dan's  face. 

"  1  've  thrown  her  off ! "  he  exclaimed,  —  "1  've  thrown 
her  off!" 

He  reached  his  whole  length  over  the  boat,  I  ran  to 
liis  side,  and  perhaps  our  motion  impelled  it,  or  perliaps 
some  unseen  hand ;  for  he  caught  at  an  end  of  rope, 
drew  it  in  a  second,  let  go  and  clutched  at  a  handful 
of  the  sail,  and  then  1  saw  how  it  liad  twisted  round 
and  swept  poor  little  Faith  over,  and  she  had  swung 
there  in  it,  like  a  dead  butterfly  in  a  chrysalis.  The 
lightnings  were  slipping  down  into  the  water  like  blades 
of  fii-e  everywhere  around  us,  with  sliort,  sliarp  volleys 
of  thunder,  and  the  waves  were  more  than  I  ever  rode 
this  side  of  the  bar  before  or  since,  and  we  took  in 
water  every  time  our  hearts  beat;  but  we  never  once 
thought  of  our  own  danger  while  we  *bent  to  poll  dear 


THE    SOUTH    BREAXEll.  117 

little  Faith  out  of  hers ;  and  that  done,  Dan  broke  into 
a  great  hearty  fit  of  crying  that  I  'm  sure  he  'd  no  need 
to  be  ashamed  of.  But  it  did  n't  last  long;  he  just  up 
and  dashed  off  the  tears  and  set  himself  at  work  again, 
while  I  was  down  on  the  floor  rubbing  Faith.  There 
she  lay  like  a  broken  lily,  with  no  hfe  in  her  little  white 
face,  and  no  breath,  and  maybe  a  pulse  and  maybe  not. 
I  could  n't  hear  a  word  Dan  said,  for  the  wind  ;  and  the 
rain  was  pouring  through  us.  I  saw  him  take  out  the 
oars,  but  I  knew  they  'd  do  no  good  in  such  a  chop, 
even  if  they  did  n't  break  ;  and  pretty  soon  he  found  it 
so,  for  he  drew  them  in  and  began  to  untie  the  anchor- 
rope  and  wind  it  round  his  waist.     I  sprang  to  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Dan  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"I  can  swim,  at  least,"  he  answered. 

"  And  tow  us  ?  —  a  mile  ?  You  know  you  can't !  It 's 
madness !  " 

"  I  must  try.  Little  Faith  will  die,  if  we  don't  get 
ashore."  » 

"  She's  dead  now,  Dan." 

"  AVhat !  No,  no,  she  is  n't.  Faith  is  n't  dead.  But 
we  must  get  ashore." 

"Dan,"  I  cried,  clinging  to  his  arm,  "Faith's  only 
one.  But  if  you  die  so,  —  and  you  will !  —  I  shall  die 
too." 

"You?" 

"  Yes ;  because,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  me,  you  would 
n't  have  been  here  at  all." 

"And  is  that  all  the  reason ?  "  he  asked,  still  at  work. 

"  Reason  enough,"  said  I. 

"  Not  quite,"  said  he. 


118  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Dan,  —  for  my  sake  —  " 

"  I  can't,  Georgie.  Don't  ask  me.  I  must  n't  —  " 
And  here  lie  stopped  short,  with  the  coil  of  rope  in  his 
hand,  and  fixed  me  with  his  eye,  and  his  look  was  terri- 
ble, —  "ice  must  n't  let  Faith  die." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  try  it,  if  you  dare ;  and  as  true  as 
there  's  a  Lord  in  heaven,  I  '11  cut  the  rope  !  " 

He  hesitated,  for  he  saw  I  was  resolute ;  and  I  would, 
I  declare  I  would  have  done  it ;  for,  do  you  know,  at  the 
moment,  I  hated  the  little  dead  thing  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat  there. 

Just  then  there  came  a  streak  of  sunshine  through  the 
gloom  where  we  'd  been  plunging  between  wind  and  wa- 
ter, and  then  a  patch  of  blue  sky,  and  the  great  cloud 
went  blowing  down  river.  Dan  threw  a^A-ay  the  rope 
and  took  out  the  oars  again. 

"  Give  me  one,  Dan,"  said  I ;  but  he  shook  his  head. 
"  0  Dan,  because  I  'm  so  sorry  !  " 

"  See  to  her,  then,  —  fetcli  Eaith  to,"  he  replied,  not 
looking  at  me,  and  making  up  with  great  sturdy  pulls. 

So  I  busied  myself,  tliough  I  could  n't  do  a  bit  of 
good.  The  instant  we  touched  bottom,  Dan  snatched 
her,  sprang  througli  the  water  and  up  tlie  landing.  I 
stayed  behind  ;  as  the  boat  recoiled,  pushed  in  a  little, 
fastened  the  anchor  and  threw  it  over,  and  then  fol- 
lowed. 

Our  house  was  next  the  landing,  and  there  Dan  had 
carried  Eaith ;  and  when  I  reached  it,  a  great  fire  was 
roaring  up  the  chimney,  and  the  teakclllc  hung  over  it, 
and  he  was  rubbing  Faith's  feet  hard  enough  to  strike 
sparks.     I  could  n't   understand  exactly  what  made  Dan 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  119 

SO  fiercely  earnest,  for  I  tliouglit  I  knew  just  how  he  felt 
about  Faith ;  but  suddenly,  when  nothing  seemed  to  an- 
swer, and  he  stood  up  and  our  eyes  met,  I  saw  such  a 
haggard,  conscience-stricken  face  that  it  all  rushed  over 
me.  But  now  we  had  done  what  we  could,  and  then  I 
felt  all  at  once  as  if  every  moment  that  I  effected  nothing 
was  drawing  out  murder.  Something  flashed  by  the 
window,  I  tore  out  of  the  house  and  threw  up  my  arms, 
I  don't  know  whether  I  screamed  or  not,  but  I  caught 
the  doctor's  eye,  and  he  jumped  from  his  gig  and  followed 
me  m.  We  had  a  siege  of  it.  But  at  length,  M'ith  hot 
blankets,  and  hot  water,  and  hot  brandy  dribbled  down 
her  throat,  a  little  pulse  began  to  play  upon  Eaith's  tem- 
ple, and  a  Httle  pink  to  beat  up  and  down  her  cheek,  and 
she  opened  her  pretty  dark  eyes  and  hfted  herself  and 
wrung  the  water  out  of  her  braids ;  then  she  sank  back. 

"  Faith  !  Faith  !  speak  to  me  !  "  said  Dan,  close  in  her 
ear.     "  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  Go  away,"  she  said  hoarsely,  pushing  his  face  with 
her  flat  wet  palm.  "  You  let  the  sail  take  me  over  and 
drown  me,  while  you  kissed  Georgie's  hand." 

I  flung  my  hand  before  her  eyes. 

*'  Is  there  a  kiss  on  those  fingers  ?  "  I  cried,  in  a  blaze. 
"  He  never  kissed  my  hands  or  my  lips.  Dan  is  your 
husband.  Faith !  " 

For  all  answer  Faith  hid  her  head  and  gave  a  little 
moan.  Somehow  I  could  n't  stand  that ;  so  I  ran  and  put 
my  arms  round  her  neck  and  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  it, 
and  then  we  cried  together.  And  Dan,  walking  the  floor, 
took  up  his  hat  and  went  out,  while  she  never  cast  a 
look  after  him.     To  think  of  such  a  great  strong  nature 


1^0  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

and  sucli  a  powerful  depth  of  feeling  being  wasted  on 
sucli  a  little  limp  rag !  I  cried  as  much  for  that  as 
anything.  Then  I  helped  Faith  into  my  bedroom,  and, 
running  borne,  I  got  her  some  dry  clothes,  —  after  rum- 
maging enough,  dear  knows  !  for  you  'd  be  more  like  to 
find  her  nightcap  in  the  tea-caddy  than  elsewhere,  —  and 
I  made  her  a  corner  on  the  settle,  for  she  was  afraid  to 
stay  in  the  bedroom,  and  when  she  was  comfortably 
covered  there  she  fell  asleep.  Dan  came  in  soon  and  sat 
down  beside  her,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  never  glancing 
aside  nor  smiling,  but  gloomier  than  the  grave.  As  for 
me,  I  felt  at  ease  now,  so  I  went  and  laid  my  hand  on 
the  back  of  his  chair  and  made  him  look  up.  I  wanted 
he  should  know  the  same  rest  that  I  had,  and  perhaps  he 
did ;  for,  still  looking  up,  the  quiet  smile  came  floating 
round  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  grew  steady  and  sweet  as 
they  used  to  be  before  he  married  Faith.  Tlicn  I  went 
bustling  lightly  about  the  kitchen  again. 

"Dan,"  I  said,  "if  you'd  just  bring  me  in  a  couple 
of  those  chickens  stalking  out  there  like  two  gentlemen 
from  Spain." 

"VYliilc  he  was  gone  I  flew  round  and  got  a  cake  into 
the  bakc-kettle,  and  a  pan  of  biscuit  down  before  the 
fire;  and  I  set  the  tea  to  steep  on  the  coals,  because 
father  always  likes  his  tea  strong  enough  to  bear  up  an 
egg,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  and  he  'd  had  that  to-day ; 
and  I  put  on  the  coffee  to  boil,  for  I  knew  Dan  never 
liad  it  at  home,  because  Faith  liked  it  and  it  didn't  agree 
witli  her.  And  llien  he  brought  me  in  the  chickens  all 
r(;ady  for  the  pot,  and  so  at  last  I  sat  down,  Init  at  tlie 
opposite  side  of  the  chimney.     Then  he  rose,  aud,  wilii- 


THE    SOLTH    BREAKER.  121 

out  exactly  touching  me,  swept  me  back  to  the  other 
side,  where  lay  the  great  net  I  was  making  for  father ; 
and  I  took  the  httle  stool  by  the  settle,  and  not  far  from 
him,  and  went  to  work. 

"  Georgie,"  said  Dan,  at  length,  after  he  'd  watched 
me  a  considerable  time,  "  if  any  word  I  may  have  said 
to-day  disturbed  you  a  moment,  I  want  you  to  know 
that  it  hurt  me  first,  and  just  as  much." 

"  Yes,  Dan,"  said  I. 

I  've  always  thought  there  was  something  real  noble 
between  Dan  and  me  then.  There  was  I,  —  well,  I 
don't  mind  telhng  you.  And  he,  —  yes,  I  'm  sure  he 
loved  me  perfectly,  —  you  must  n't  be  startled,  I  '11  tell 
you  how  it  was,  —  and  always  had,  only  maybe  he  had  n't 
known  it ;  but  it  was  deep  down  in  his  heart  just  the 
same,  and  by  and  by  it  stirred.  There  we  were,  both  of 
us  thoroughly  conscious,  yet  neither  of  us  expressing  it 
by  a  word,  and  trying  not  to  by  a  look,  —  both  of  us 
content  to  wait  for  the  next  hfe,  when  we  could  belong  to 
one  another.  In  those  days  I  contrived  to  have  it  al- 
ways pleasure  enough  for  me  just  to  know  that  Dan  was 
in  the  room ;  and  though  that  was  n't  often,  I  never 
grudged  Faith  her  right  in  Imn,  perhaps  because  I  knew 
she  did  n't  care  anything  about  it.  You  see,  this  is  how 
it  was. 

When  Dan  was  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and  took  care  of  his 
mother,  a  ship  went  to  pieces  down  there  on  the  island. 
It  was  one  of  the  worst  storms  that  ever  wliistled,  and 
though  crowds  were  on  the  shore,  it  was  impossible  to 
reach  her.  They  coidd  see  the  poor  \vretches  hanging 
in  the  rigging,  and  dropping  one  by  one,  and  they  could 

VOL.    VII.  6 


l'Z'2  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

only  stay  and  sicken,  for  the  surf  stove  the  boats,  and 
they  did  n't  know  then  how  to  send  out  ropes  on  rockets 
or  on  cannon-balls,  and  so  the  night  fell,  and  the  people 
wrung  their  hands  and  left  the  sea  to  its  prey,  and  felt 
as  if  blue  sky  could  never  come  again.  And  with  the 
bright,  keen  morning  not  a  vestige  of  the  ship,  but  here 
a  spar  and  there  a  door,  and  on  the  side  of  a  sand-hill 
a  great  dog  watching  over  a  little  child  that  he  'd  kept 
Avarm  all  night.  Dan,  he  'd  got  up  at  turn  of  tide,  and 
walked  down, — the  sea  running  over  the  road  knee- 
deep, —  for  there  was  too  much  swell  for  boats;  and 
when  day  broke,  he  found  the  little  girl,  and  carried  her 
up  to  town.  He  did  n't  take  her  home,  for  he  saw  that 
what  clothes  she  had  were  the  very  finest,  —  made  as 
delicately, — with  seams  like  the  hair-strokes  on  that 
lieart's-ease  there ;  and  he  concluded  that  he  could  n't 
bring  her  up  as  she  ought  to  be.  So  he  took  her  round 
\.)  the  rich  men,  and  represented  that  she  was  the  child 
of  a  lady,  and  that  a  poor  fellow  like  himself — for  Dan 
uas  older  than  his  years,  you  see  —  couldn't  do  her 
justice :  she  was  a  sHght  little  thing,  and  needed  dainty 
training  and  fancy  food,  maybe  a  matter  of  seven  years 
old,  and  she  spoke  some  foreign  Janguage,  and  perhaps 
she  didn't  speak  it  plain,  for  nobody  knew  what  it 
was.  However,  everybody  was  very  much  interested, 
and  everybody  was  willing  to  give  and  to  lu^lp,  but 
nobody  wanted  to  take  her,  and  the  upshot  of  it  was 
that  Dan  refused  all  their  offers  and  took  her  liimself. 
His  mollier'd  been  in  to  our  house  all  tbe  afternoon 
before,  and  she  'd  kept  taking  her  pi])c  out  of  her  mouth, 
—  she  had  the  asthma,  and  smoked,  —  and  kept  sigliing. 


THE    SOU  I'll    BREAKER.  123 

"Tliis  storm's  going  to  bring  me  something,"  says 
she,  in  a  mighty  miserable  tone.     "  I  'm  sure  of  it  I  " 

"No  harm,  I  hope,  Miss  Devereux,"  said  mother. 

"Well,  llhody,"  —  mother's  father,  he  was  a  queer 
kind,  called  his  girls  all  after  the  thirteen  States,  and 
there  being  none  left  for  Uncle  Mat,  he  called  him  after 
the  state  of  matrimony,  —  "  well,  Rhody,"  she  replied, 
rather  dismally,  and  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  the  bowl, 
"I  don't  know;  but  I'll  have  faith  to  believe  that  the 
Lord  won't  send  me  no  ill  without  distincter  warning. 
And  that  it 's  good  I  have  faith  to  believe." 

And  so  when  the  child  appeared,  and  had  no  name, 
and  couldn't  answer  for  herself,  Mrs.  Devereux  called 
her  Faith. 

"We  're  a  people  of  presentiments  down  here  on  the 
Flats,  and  well  we  may  be.  You  'd  own  up  yourself, 
maybe,  if  in  the  dark  of  the  night,  you  locked  in  sleep, 
there  's  a  knock  on  the  door  enough  to  wake  the  dead, 
and  you  start  up  and  listen  and  nothing  follows ;  and 
falling  back,  you  're  just  dozing  off,  and  there  it  is  once 
more,  so  that  the  lad  m  the  next  room  cries  out,  "  "Ulio  's 
that,  mother  ? "  No  one  answering,  you  're  half  lost 
again,  when  rap  comes  the  hand  agam,  the  loudest  of 
the  three,  and  you  spring  to  the  door  and  open  it,  and 
there  's  naught  there  but  a  wind  from  the  graves  blowing 
in  your  face ;  and  after  a  while  you  learn  that  in  that 
hour  of  that  same  night  your  husband  was  lost  at 
sea.  Well,  that  happened  to  Mrs.  Devereux.  And  I 
have  n't  time  to  tell  you  the  warnings  I  've  known 
of.  As  for  Faith,  I  mind  that  she  said  herself,  as  we 
were  in  the  boat  for  that  clear  midniorht  sail,  that  the 


124  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

sea  had  a  spite  against  lier,  but  third  time  was  trying 
time. 

So  Faith  grew  up,  and  Dan  sent  her  to  school  wliat 
he  could,  for  he  set  store  by  her.  She  was  always  ailing, 
—  a  little  wilful,  pettish  thing,  but  pretty  as  a  flower; 
and  folks  put  things  into  her  head,  and  she  began  to 
think  she  was  some  great  shakes;  and  she  may  have 
been  a  matter  of  seventeen  years  old  when  Mrs.  Dev- 
ereux  died.  Dan,  as  simple  at  twenty-six  as  he  had 
been  ten  years  before,  thought  to  go  on  just  in  the  old 
way,  but  the  neighbors  were  one  too  many  for  him ;  and 
they  all  represented  that  it  would  never  do,  and  so  on, 
till  the  poor  fellow  got  perplexed  and  vexed  and  half 
beside  himself.  There  was  n't  the  first  thing  she  could 
do  for  herself,  and  he  could  n't  aiTord  to  board  lier  out, 
for  Dan  was  only  a  laboring-man,  mackereUing  all  sum- 
mer and  shoemaking  all  winter,  less  the  dreadful  times 
when  he  stayed  out  on  the  Georges;  and  then  he 
coukl  n't  afford,  cither,  to  keep  her  there  and  ruin  the 
poor  girl's  re})utation ;  —  and  what  did  Dan  do  but  come 
to  me  with  it  all? 

Now  for  a  number  of  years  I  'd  been  up  in  the  other 
part  of  the  town  with  Aunt  Netty,  who  kept  a  shop  that 
I  tended  between  schools  and  before  and  after,  and  I  'd 
almost  forgotten  tlicre  was  such  a  soul  on  earth  as  Dan 
Devereux, — though  he'd  not  forgotten  me.  I'd  got 
through  the  Grammar  and  had  a  year  in  tlic  High,  and 
suppose  I  sliould  have  finished  witli  an  education  and 
gone  off  teacliing  somewhere,  instead  of  l)eing  here  now, 
clieerful  as  heart  could  wisli,  with  a  littU^  black-haired 
hussy   filtering  on  the  back  of  my  chair.      liolly,  got 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  125 

down !  Her  name  's  Laura,  —  for  liis  mother.  I  mean 
I  might  have  done  all  this,  if  at  that  time  mother  had  n't 
been  thrown  on  her  back,  and  been  bedridden  ever 
since.  I  have  n't  said  much  about  mother  yet,  but  there 
all  the  time  she  was,  just  as  she  is  to-day,  in  her  little 
tidy  bed  in  one  corner  of  the  great  kitchen,  sweet  as 
a  saint,  and  as  patient ;  —  and  I  had  to  come  and  keep 
house  for  father.  He  never  meant  that  I  should  lose  by 
it,  father  did  n't ;  begged,  borrowed,  or  stolen,  bought 
or  liired,  I  should  have  my  books,  lie  said :  he  's  mighty 
proud  of  my  learning,  though  between  you  and  me  it 's 
little  enough  to  be  proud  of;  but  the  neighbors  think  I 
know  'most  as  much  as  the  minister,  —  and  I  let  'em 
think.  Well,  while  Mrs.  Devereux  was  sick  I  was  over 
there  a  good  deal,  —  for  if  Faith  had  one  talent,  it  was 
total  incapacity,  —  and  there  had  a  chance  of  knowing 
the  stuff  that  Dan  was  made  of;  and  I  declare  to  man 
't  would  have  touched  a  heart  of  stone  to  see  the  love 
between  the  two.  She  thought  Dan  held  up  the  sky,  and 
Dan  thought  she  teas  the  sky.  It's  no  wonder, — the 
risks  our  men  lead  can't  make  common-sized  women  out 
of  their  wives  and  mothers.  But  I  had  n't  been  coming 
in  and  out,  busying  about  where  Dan  was,  all  that  time, 
without  making  any  mark;  though  he  was  so  lost  in 
grief  about  his  mother  that  lie  did  n't  take  notice  of  his 
other  feelings,  or  think  of  himself  at  all.  And  who 
could  care  the  less  about  him  for  that?  It  always 
brings  down  a  woman  to  see  a  man  wrapt  in  some  sor- 
row that 's  lawful  and  tender  as  it  is  large.  And  when 
he  came  and  told  me  what  the  neighbors  said  he  must  do 
with  Paith,  the  blood  stood  still  in  my  heart. 


126  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Ask  mother,  Dan,"  says  I ;  for  I  could  n'l  Lave 
advised  liini.     '•  She  knows  best  about  everytliing." 

So  he  asked  her. 

"  I  think  —  I  'm  sorry  to  think,  for  I  fear  she  '11  not 
make  you  a  good  wife,"  said  mother,  "but  that  perhaps 
her  love  for  you  will  teach  her  to  be — -you  'd  best  marry 
Faith." 

"  But  I  can't  marry  her  !  "  said  Dan,  half  choking ;  "  I 
don't  want  to  marry  her,  —  it  —  it  makes  me  uncomforta- 
ble-like to  think  of  such  a  thing..  I  care  for  the  child 
plenty  —  Besides,"  said  Dan,  catching  at  a  bright  hope, 
"  I  'ra  not  sure  that  she  'd  have  me." 

"  Have  you,  poor  boy  !     What  else  can  she  do  ?  " 

Dan  groaned. 

"  Poor  little  Faith  !  "  said  mother.  "  She  's  so  pretty, 
Dan,  and  she  's  so  young,  and  she 's  pliant.  And  then 
how  can  we  tell  what  may  turn  up  about  her  some  day  ? 
She  may  be  a  duke's  daughter  yet,  —  who  knows  ?  Think 
of  the  stroke  of  good-fortune  she  may  give  you  !  " 

"  But  I  don't  love  her,"  said  Dan,  as  a  finality. 

"  Perhaps  —  It  is  n't  —  You  don't  love  any  one 
else  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dan,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  not  at  all 
with  reflection.  Aiul  tlien,  as  his  eyes  went  "wandering, 
there  came  over  them  a  misty  look,  just  as  the  haze 
creeps  between  you  and  some  object  away  out  at  sea, 
and  lie  seemed  to  be  sifting  his  very  soul.  Suddenly  the 
look  swept  off  them,  and  his  eyes  struck  mine,  and  he 
turned,  not  having  meant  to,  and  faced  me  entirely,  and 
there  came  such  a  light  into  his  countenance,  such  a 
smile  round  his  lips,  such  a  rod  stuin])od  his  check,  and 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  127 

he  bent  a  little,  — and  it  was  just  as  if  the  angel  of  the 
Lord  had  shaken  his  wings  over  us  in  passing,  and  we 
both  of  us  knew  that  here  was  a  man  and  here  was  a 
woman,  each  for  the  other,  in  life  and  death;  and  I  just 
hid  my  head  in  my  apron,  and  mother  turned  on  her 
pillow  with  a  little  moan.  How  long  that  lasted  I  can't 
say,  but  by  and  by  I  heard  mother's  voice,  clear  and 
sweet  as  a  tolling  bell  far  away  on  some  fair  Sunday 
morning,  — 

"  The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple,  the  Lord's  throne  is 
in  heaven :  his  eyes  behold,  his  eyelids  try  the  children 
of  men." 

And  nobody  spoke, 

"  Thou  art  my  Father,  my  God,  and  the  rock  of  my 
salvation.  Thou  wilt  light  my  candle :  the  Lord  ray 
God  will  enlighten  my  darkness.  For  with  thee  is  the 
fountain  of  life  :  in  thy  hglit  shall  we  see  light." 

Then  came  the  hush  again,  and  Dan  started  to  liis  feet, 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  as  if  sometliing 
drove  him ;  but,  wearying,  he  stood  and  leaned  his  head 
on  the  chimney  there.  And  mother's  voice  broke  the 
stillness  anew,  and  she  said,  — 

"  Hath  God  forgotten  to  be  gracious  ?  His  mercy 
endureth  forever.  And  none  of  them  that  trust  in  him 
shall  be  desolate." 

There  was  something  in  mother's  tone  that  made  me 
forget  myself  and  my  sorrow,  and  look ;  and  there  she 
was,  as  she  had  n't  been  before  for  six  months,  half  risen 
from  the  bed,  one  hand  up,  and  her  whole  face  white  and 
shining  with  confident  faith.  Well,  when  I  see  all  that 
such  trust  has  buoyed  mother  over,  I  wish  to  goodness 


128  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

I  had  it :  I  take  more  after  Martha.  But  never  mind, 
do  well  here  and  you  '11  do  well  there,  say  I.  Perhaps 
you  think  it  was  n't  much,  the  quiet  and  the  few  texts 
breathed  through  it ;  but  sometimes  when  one's  soul 's 
at  a  white  heat,  it  may  be  moulded  like  wax  with  a  fin- 
ger. As  for'  me,  maybe  God  hardened  Pharaoh's  heart, 
—  thougli  how  that  was  Pharaoh's  fault  I  never  could 
see  ;  —  but  Dan,  —  he  felt  what  it  was  to  have  a  refuge 
in  trouble,  to  have  a  great  love  always  extending  over 
him  like  a  wing ;  he  longed  for  it ;  he  could  n't  believe 
it  was  his  now,  he  was  so  suddenly  convicted  of  all  sin 
and  wickedness ;  and  somethhig  sprang  up  in  his  heart,  a 
kind  of  holy  passion  that  he  felt  to  be  possible  for  this 
great  and  tender  Divine  Being ;  and  lie  came  and  fell  on 
his  knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  crying  out  for  mother 
to  show  him  the  way ;  and  mother,  she  put  her  hand  on 
his  head  and  prayed,  —  prayed,  oh  !  so  beautifully,  that 
it  nuikes  the  water  stand  in  my  eyes  now  to  remember 
what  she  said.  But  I  did  n't  feel  so  then,  my  heart  and 
my  soul  were  rebellious,  and  love  for  Dan  alone  kept  me 
under,  not  love  for  God.  And  in  fact,  if  ever  I  'd  got  to 
heaven  then,  love  for  Dan  'd  have  been  my  only  saving 
grace ;  for  I  was  mighty  high-spirited,  as  a  girl.  Well, 
Dan  he  never  made  open  profession ;  but  when  he  left 
the  liouse,  he  went  and  asked  Paith  to  marry  him.  ♦ 

Now  Faith  did  n't  care  anything  about  Dan,  — except 
the  quiet  attachment  that  she  could  n't  lielp,  from  living 
in  the  house  with  him,  and  he  'd  always  petted  and  made 
mu(-h  of  licr,  and  dressed  her  like  a  doll,  —  he  was  n't  the 
kind  of  man  to  take  her  fancy ;  she  'd  have  maybe  liked 
SOUK!  slender,  smooth-laced  chap ;  but  Dan  was  a  black. 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  129 

« 
shaggy  fellow,  witli  shoulders  like  the  cross-tree,  and  a 
length  of  limb  like  Saul's,  and  eyes  set  deep,  like  lamps 
in  caverns.  And  he  had  a  great,  powerful  heart,  —  and, 
oh!  how  it  was  lost!  for  she  might  have  won  it,  she 
might  have  made  him  love  her,  since  I  would  have  stood 
wide  away  and  aside  for  the  sake  of  seeing  him  happy. 
But  Faith  was  one  of  those  that,  if  they  can't  get  what 
they  want,  have  n't  any  idea  of  putting  up  with  what 
they  have,  —  God  forgive  me,  if  I  am  hard  on  the  child  I 
And  she  could  n't  give  Dan  an  answer  right  off,  but  was 
loath  to  think  of  it,  and  went  flirting  about  among  the 
other  boys  ;  and  Dan,  wheij  he  saw  she  was  n't  so  easily 
gotten,  perhaps  set  more  value  on  her.  For  Faith,  she 
grew  prettier  every  day ;  her  great  brown  eyes  were  so 
soft  and  clear,  and  had  a  wide,  sorrowful  way  of  looking 
at  you ;  and  her  cheeks,  that  were  usually  pale,  blossomed 
to  roses  when  you  spoke  to  her,  her  hair  drooping  over 
them  dark  and  silky;  and  though  she  was  slack  and 
untidy  and  at  loose  ends  about  her  di'ess,  she  somehow 
always  seemed  like  a  princess  in  disguise ;  and  when  she 
had  on  anything  new,  —  a  sprigged  caUco  and  her  little 
straw  bonnet  with  the  pink  ribbons  and  Mrs.  Devereux's 
black  scarf,  for  instance,  —  you  'd  have  allowed  that  she 
might  have  been  daughter  to  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  I 
don't  know,  but  I  rather  think  Dan  would  n't  have  said 
any  more  to  Faith,  from  various  motives,  you  see,  not- 
withstanding the  neighbors  were  still  remonstrating  with 
him,  if  it  had  n't  been  that  Miss  Brown  —  she  that  hved 
round  the  comer  there ;  the  town  's  well  quit  of  her  now, 
poor  thing !  —  went  to  saying  the  same  stuff  to  Faith, 
and  telling  her  all  that  other  folks  said.  And  Faith  went 
6*  I 


I'ii)  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

home  in  a  passion,  —  some  of  your  timid  kind  nothing 
evei'  abashes,  and  nobody  gets  to  the  windward  of  them, 
—  and,  being  perfectly  furious,  fell  to  accusing  Dan  of 
having  brought  her  to  this,  so  that  Dan  actually  believed 
he  had,  and  was  cut  to  the  quick  with  contrition,  and  told 
her  that  all  the  reparation  he  could  make  he  was  waiting 
and  wishing  to  make,  and  then  there  came  floods  of  tears. 
Some  women  seem  to  have  set  out  with  the  idea  that 
life  's  a  desert  for  them  to  cross,  and  they  've  laid  in  a 
supply  of  water-bags  accordingly,  but  it  's  the  meanest 
weapon !  And  then,  again,  there  's  men  that  are  iron, 
and  not  to  be  bent  under  calamities,  that  these  tears  can 
tAvist  round  your  little  finger.  Well,  I  suppose  Faith 
concluded  't  was  no  use  to  go  hungry  because  her  l)read 
was  n't  buttered  on  both  sides,  but  she  always  acted  as 
if  she  'd  condescended  ninety  degrees  in  marrying  Dan, 
and  Dan  always  seemed  to  feci  that  he  'd  done  her  a  great 
injury;  and  there  it  was. 

I  kept  in  the  house  for  a  time  ;  mother  was  worse,  — 
and  I  thought  the  less  Dan  saw  of  me  the  better ;  I 
kind  of  hoped  he  'd  forget,  and  find  his  happiness  where 
it  ought  to  be.  But  tlie  first  time  I'  saAV  him,  when 
Faith  had  been  his  wife  all  the  spring,  there  was  the 
look  in  his  eyes  that  told  of  i  he  ache  in  his  heart.  Faith 
wasn't  very  liappy  herself,  of  course,  though  she  was 
careless  ;  and  she  gave  him  trouble,  —  keeping  company 
with  the  young  men  just  as  before;  aiul  she  got  into  a 
way  of  flying  straight  to  me,  if  Dan  ventured  to  reprove 
her  ever  so  lightly;  and  stormy  nights,  when  he  was 
gone,  and  in  his  loug  trips,  she  always  locked  up  her 
do(jrs  and  came  over  and  got  into  my  bod ;  and  she  was 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  1:31 

one  of  those  that  never  hstened  to  reason,  and  it  was 
none  so  easy  for  mc,  you  may  "Suppose. 

Things  had  gone  on  now  for  some  three  years,  and 
I  'd  about  lived  in  my  books,  — I  'd  tried  to  teach  Faith 
some,  but  she  would  n't  go  any  further  than  newspaper 
stories,  —  when  one  day  Dan  took  her  and  me  to  sail, 
and  we  were  to  have  liad  a  clam-chowder  on  the  Point, 
if  the  squall  had  n't  come.  As  it  was,  we  'd  got  to  put 
up  with  chicken-broth,  and  it  could  n't  have  been  better, 
considoring  who  made  it.  It  was  getting  on  toward 
the  cool  of  the  May  evening,  the  sunset  was  round  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  but  all  the  east  looked  as 
if  the  sky  had  been  stirred  up  with  currant-juice,  till  it 
grew  purple  and  dark,  and  then  the  two  lighthouses 
flared  out  and  showed  us  the  lip  of  froth  lapping  the 
shadowy  shore  beyond,  and  I  heard  father's  voice,  and 
he  came  in. 

There  was  nothing  but  the  G relight  in  the  room,  and 
it  threw  about  great  shadows,  so  that  at  first  entering 
all  was  indistinct ;  but  I  heard  a  foot  behind  father's, 
and  then  a  form  appeared,  and  something,  I  never  could 
tell  what,  made  a  great  shiver  rush  down  my  back,  just 
as  when  a  creature  is  frightened  in  the  dark  at  what  you 
don't  see ;  and  so,  though  my  soul  was  unconscious,  my 
body  felt  that  there  was  danger  in  the  air.  Dan  had 
risen  and  lighted  the  lamp  that  swings  in  the  chimney, 
and  father  first  of  all  had  gone  up  and  kissed  mother, 
and  left  the  stranger  standing;  then  he  turned  round, 
saying,  — 

"  A  tough  day,  —  it 's  been  a  tough  day ;  and  here  's 
some  un  to  prove  it.     Georgie,  hope  that  pot's   steam 


lo'Z  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

don't  belie  it,  for  Mr.  Gabriel  Verelay  and  I  want  a  good 
supper  and  a  good  bed." 

At  this,  the  stranger,  still  standing,  bowed. 

"  Here 's  the  one,  father,"  said  I.  "  But  about  the 
bed,  —  Paith  'II  have  to  stay  here,  —  and  I  don't  see,  — 
unless  Dan  takes  him  over  —  " 

"  That  I  '11  do,"  said  Dan. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  voice  that  you  did 
n't  seem  to  notice  while  he  was  speaking,  but  that  you 
remembered  afterwards  like  the  ring  of  any  silver  tiling 
that  has  been  thrown  down ;  and  he  dropped  his  hat  on 
the  floor  and  drew  near  the  fireplace,  warming  hands 
that  were  slender  and  brown,  but  shapely  as  a  woman's. 
I  was  taking  up  the  supper ;  so  I  only  gave  him  a  glance 
or  two,  and  saw  him  standing  there,  his  left  hand  ex- 
tended to  the  blaze,  and  his  eye  resting  lightly  and  then 
earnestly  on  Faith  in  her  pretty  sleep,  and  turning  away 
much  as  one  turns  from  a  picture.  At  length  I  came 
to  ask  him  to  sit  by,  and  at  that  moment  Faith's  eyes 
opened. 

Faith  always  woke  up  just  as  a  baby  does,  wide  and 
bewildered,  and  the  fire  had  flushed  her  cheeks,  and  her 
hair  was  disordered,  and  she  fixed  her  gaze  on  him  as  if 
he  had  stepped  out  of  her  dream,  her  lii)s  half  parted  and 
then  curling  in  a  smile ;  but  hi  a  second  he  moved  off 
with  me,  and  Faith  slipped  down  and  into  the  little  bed- 
room. 

Well,  we  did  n't  waste  many  words  until  father  'd  lost 
the  edge  of  his  appetite,  and  then  I  told  about  Faith. 

"  'F  that  don't  beat  the  Dutch  !  "  said  father.  "  Here 's 
Mr.  — Mr.  —  " 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  133 

"  Gabriel,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Yes,  —  Mr.  Gabriel  Verelay  been  sei-ved  the  same 
trick  by  the  same  squall,  only  worse  and  more  of  it,  — 
knocked  off  the  yacht  —     What 's  that  you  call  her  ?  " 

"  La  belle  Louise." 

"  And  left  for  drowned,  —  if  they  see  liim  go  at  all. 
But  he  could  n't  'a'  sinked  in  that  sea,  if  he'd  tried.  He 
kep'  afloat ;  we  blundered  into  him ;  and  here  he  is." 

Dan  and  I  looked  round  in  considerable  surprise,  for 
he  was  dry  as  an  August  leaf. 

"  0,"  said  the  stranger,  coloring,  and  with  the  least 
little  turn  of  his  words,  as  if  he  didn't  always  speak 
English,  "  the  good  capitain  reached  shore,  and,  finding 
sticks,  he  kindled  a  fire,  and  we  did  dry  our  clothes  un- 
til it  made  fine  weather  once  more." 

"Yes,"  said  father;  "but 't  wouldn't  been  quite  such 
fine  weather,  I  reckon,  if  this  'd  gone  to  the  fishes  !  " 
And  he  pushed  something  across  the  table. 

It  was  a  pouch  with  steel  snaps,  and  well  stuffed. 
The  stranger  colored  again,  and  held  his  hand  for  it,  and 
the  snap  burst,  and  great  gold  pieces,  English  coin  and 
very  old  French  ones,  rolled  about  the  table,  and  father 
shut  his  eyes  tight ;  and  just  then  Eaith  came  back  and 
slipped  into  her  chair.  I  saw  her  eyes  sparkle  as  we  all 
reached,  laughing  and  joking,  to  gather  them  ;  and  Mr. 
Gabriel  —  we  got  into  the  way  of  calling  him  so,  —  he 
liked  it  best  —  hurried  to  get  them  out  of  sight  as  if 
he  'd  committed  some  act  of  ostentation.  And  then,  to 
make  amends,  he  threw  off  what  constraint  he  had  worn 
in  this  new  atmosphere  of  ours,  and  was  so  gay,  so  full 
of  questions  and  quips  and  conceits,  all  spoken  in  his 


134  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

strange  "vray,  his  voice  was  so  sweet,  and  he  laughed  so 
much  and  so  like  a  boy,  and  his  words  had  so  much 
point  and  brightness,  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
the  showers  of  colored  stars  in  fireworks.  Dan  felt  it 
like  a  play,  sat  quiet,  but  enjoying,  and  I  saw  he  liked 
it ;  —  the  fellow  had  a  way  of  attaching  every  one. 
Father  was  uproarious,  and  kept  calling  out,  "  Mother, 
do  you  hear  ?  —  d'  you  hear  that,  mother  ? "  And 
Faith,  she  was  near,  taking  it  all  in  as  a  flower  does  sun- 
shine, only  smiling  a  little,  and  looking  utterly  happy. 
Then  I  hurried  to  clear  up,  and  Faith  sat  in  the  great 
arm-chair,  and  father  got  out  the  pipes,  and  you  could 
hardly  see  across  the  room  for  the  wide  tobacco-wreaths ; 
and  then  it  was  father's  turn,  and  he  told  story  after 
story  of  the  hardships  and  the  dangers  and  the  charms 
of  our  way  of  living.  And  I  could  see  Mr.  Gabriel's 
cheek  blanch,  and  he  would  bend  forward,  forgetting  to 
smoke,  and  his  breath  coming  short,  and  then  right  him- 
self like  a  boat  after  lurching,  —  he  had  such  natural 
ways,  and  except  that  he  'd  maybe  been  a  spoiled  child, 
he  would  have  had  a  good  heart,  as  hearts  go.  And 
nothing  would  do  at  last  but  he  must  stay  and  live  the 
same  scenes  for  a  little  ;  and  father  told  him  't  wouldn't 
pay,  —  they  were  n't  so  much  to  go  through  with  as  to 
tell  of,  —  there  was  too  much  prose  in  tlic  daily  life,  and 
too  much  dirt,  and  't  wa'  n't  fit  for  gentlemen.  O,  he 
said,  he  'd  been  used  to  roughing  it,  —  woodshig,  camp- 
ing and  gunning  and  yachting,  ever  since  he  'd  been  a 
free  man.  lie  was  a  Canadian,  ami  had  been  cruising 
from  the  St.  Lawrence  to  Florida;  and  now,  as  his 
coni})aiiions  would  go  on  without  him,  ho  liad  a  mind  to 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  l.*35 

try  a  bit  of  coast -life.  Aud  could  he  board  here  ?  or 
was  there  auv  handy  place  ?  And  father  said,  there  was 
Dau,  —  Dan  Devereux,  a  man  that  hadn't  his  match  at 
oar  or  helm.  And  ^Ir.  Gabriel  turned  his  keen  eye  and 
bowed  again,  —  and  could  n't  Dan  take  Mr.  Gabriel  'r* 
And  before  Dan  could  answer,  for  he  'd  referred  it  to 
Faith,  Mr.  Gabriel  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  and  was 
humming  a  little  French  song  and  stirring  the  coals  with 
the  tongs.  And  that  put  father  off  in  a  fresh  remem- 
brance ;  and  as  the  hours  lengthened,  the  stories  grew 
fearful,  aud  he  told  them  deep  into  the  midnight,  till  at 
last  Mr.  Gabriel  stood  up. 

"  Xo  more,  good  friend,''  said  he.  "  But  I  will  have 
a  taste  of  this  life  perilous.  And  now  where  is  it  that 
I  go  ? " 

Dau  also  stood  up. 

"  My  little  woman,"  said  he,  glancing  at  Faith,  "•  thinks 
there  's  a  corner  for  you,  sir." 

"I  beg  your  pardon  — "  And  Mr.  Gabriel  paused, 
with  a  shadow  skimming  over  his  clear  dark  face. 

Dan  wondered  what  he  was  begging  pardon  for,  but 
thought  perhaps  he  had  n't  heard  him,  so  he  re- 
peated, — 

"My  wife," — nodding  over  his  shoulder  at  Faith, 
"  she  's  my  wife,  —  thinks  there  's  a  — " 

"  She  's  your  wife  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gabriel,  his  eyes  open- 
ing aud  brightenmg  the  way  an  aurora  runs  up  the  sky, 
and  looking  first  at  one  aud  then  at  the  other,  as  if  he 
could  n't  understand  how  so  delicate  a  flower  grew  on 
so  thorny  a  stem. 

The  red  flushed  up  Dan's  face,  —  aud  up  miue,  too. 


186  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

for  the  matter  of  tliat, — but  iu  a  miuiite  the  stranger 
had  dropped  his  glance. 

"And  Avhy  did  you  not  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  1 
might  have  found  her  less  beautiful  ?  " 

Then  he  raised  his  shoulders,  gave  her  a  saucy  bow, 
with  his  hand  on  Dan's  arm, — Dan,  who  was  now  too 
well  pleased  at  having  Faith  made  happy  by  a  compli- 
ment to  sift  it,  —  and  they  went  out. 

But  I  was  angry  enough ;  and  you  may  imagine  I 
was  n't  much  soothed  by  seeing  Faith,  who  'd  been  so 
die-away  all  the  evening,  sitting  up  before  my  scrap  of 
looking-glass,  trying  in  my  old  coral  ear-rings,  bowing 
up  my  ribbons,  and  plaiting  and  prinking  till  the  clock 
frightened  her  into  bed. 

The  next  morning,  mother,  who  was  n't  used  to  such 
disturbance,  was  ill,  and  I  was  kept  pretty  busy  tending 
on  her  for  two  or  three  days.  Faith  had  insisted  on 
goijig  home  the  first  thing  after  breakfast,  and  in  that 
time  I  heard  no  more  of  anybody,  —  for  father  was  out 
with  the  night-tides,  and,  except  to  ask  how  mother  did, 
and  if  I  'd  seen  tlie  stray  from  tlie  Loliblelyese  again, 
was  too  tired  for  talking  when  he  came  back.  That  had 
been  —  let  me  see  —  on  a  Monday,  I  tliink, — yes,  on 
a  Monday ;  and  Thursday  evening,  as  in-doors  had  be- 
gun to  tell  on  me,  and  mother  was  so  much  imjjroved,  I 
thouglit  I  'd  run  outj  for  a  walk  along  the  sea-wall.  The 
sunset  was  creeping  round  everything,  and  lying  in  great 
sheets  on  the  broad,  still  river,  tlie  children  were  frolick- 
ing in  the  water,  and  all  was  so  gay,  and  the  air  was  so 
sweet,  tliat  I  went  lingering  along  farther  than  I'd 
meant,  and  by  and  by  who  should  1  see  but  a  couple 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  137 

sauntering  toward  me  at  my  own  gait,  and  one  of  tlicm 
was  Faith.  She  liad  on  a  muslin  with  little  roses  blush- 
ing all  over  it,  and  she  floated  along  in  it  as  if  she  were 
in  a  pink  cloud,  and  she  'd  snatched  a  vine  of  the  tender 
young  woodbine  as  she  went,  and,  throwing  it  round 
her  shoulders,  held  the  two  ends  in  one  hand  like  a 
ribbon,  while  with  the  other  she  swung  her  white  sun- 
bonnet.  She  laughed,  and  shook  her  head  at  me,  and 
there,  large  as  Ufe,  under  the  dark  braids  dangled  my 
coral  ear-rings,  that  she  'd  adopted  without  leave  or 
license.  She  'd  been  down  to  the  lower  landing  to 
meet  Dan,  —  a  thing  she  'd  done  before  —  I  don't  know 
when,  —  and  was  walking  up  with  Mr.  Gabriel  while 
Dan  stayed  behind  to  see  to  things.  I  kept  them  talk- 
ing, and  Mr.  Gabriel  was  sparkling  with  fun,  for  he  'd 
got  to  feeling  acquainted,  and  it  had  put  him  in  high 
spirits  to  get  ashore  at  this  hour,  though  he  liked  the 
sea,  and  we  were  all  laughing,  when  Dan  came  up. 
Now  I  must  confess  I  had  n't  fancied  Mr.  Gabriel  over 
and  above ;  I  suppose  my  first  impression  had  hardened 
into  a  prejudice ;  and  after  I  'd  fathomed  the  meaning 
of  Faith's  fine  feathers  I  liked  him  less  than  ever.  But 
when  Dan  came  up,  he  joined  right  in,  gay  and  hearty, 
and  liking  his  new  acquaintance  so  much,  that,  thinks  I, 
he  must  know  best,  and  I  '11  let  him  look  out  for  his 
interests  himself.  It  would  'a'  been  no  use,  though, 
for  Dan  to  pretend  to  beat  the  Frenchman  at  his  own 
weapons,  —  and  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  cared 
to  have  him.  The  older  I  grow,  the  less  I  think  of  your 
mere  intellect;  throw  learning  out  of  the  scales,  and 
give  me  a  great,  warm  heart,  —  like  Dan's. 


138  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Well,  it  was  getting  on  in  the  evening,  ^A•lleu  tlie  latch 
lifted,  and  in  ran  Faith.  She  twisted  my  ear-ruigs  out 
of  her  hair,  exclaiming,  — 

"  0  Georgie,  are  you  busy  ?  Can't  you  perse  my 
ears  now?" 

"  Pierce  them  yourself,  Taith." 

"Well,  pierce,  then.  But  I  can't,  —  you  know  I 
can't.  Won't  you  now,  Georgie  ?  "  And  she  tossed  the 
ear-rings  into  my  lap. 

"Why,  Faith,"  said  I,  "how'd3'ou  contrive  to  wear 
these,  if  your  ears  are  n't  —  " 

"  O,  I  tied  them  on.     Come  now,  Georgie  !  " 

So  I  got  the  ball  of  yarn  and  the  darning-needle. 

"  0,  not  such  a  big  one  !  "  cried  she. 

"  Perhaps  you  'd  like  a  cambric  needle,"  said  I. 

"  I  don't  want  a  which,"  she  pouted. 

"Well,  here  's  a  smaller  one.     Now  kneel  down." 

"Yes,  but  you  wait  a  moment,  till  I  screw  up  my 
courage." 

"  No  need.  You  can  talk,  and  I  '11  take  you  at  una- 
wares." 

So  Faith  knelt  down,  and  I  got  all  ready.' 

"And  what  shall  I  talk  about?"  said  she.  "About 
Aunt  Eliody,  or  Mr.  Gabriel,  or  —  I  '11  tell  you  the 
queerest  thing,  Georgie  !     Going  to  now  ?  " 

"  Do  be  quiet.  Faith,  and  not  keep  your  head  flirting 
about  so  !  "  —  for  she  'd  started  up  to  speak.  Then  she 
composed  herself  once  more, 

"  What  was  I  saying  ?  O,  about  that !  Yes,  Georgie, 
the  queerest  thing!  You  sec  this  evening,  when  Dan 
was  out,  I  was  sitting  talkin'  with  Mr.  Gabriel,  and  he 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  139 

was  wondering  how  I  came  to  be  dropped  down  here, 
so  I  told  him  all  about  it.  And  he  was  so  interested 
that  I  went  and  showed  him  the  things  I  had  on  when 
Dan  found  me,  —  you  know  they  've  been  kept  real  nice. 
And  he  took  them,  and  looked  them  over  close,  admiring 
them,  and  —  and  —  admiring  me,  —  and  finally  he  started, 
and  then  held  the  frock  to  the  light,  and  then  lifted  a  lit- 
tle plait,  and  in  the  under  side  of  the  belt  lining  there 
was  a  name  very  finely  wrought,  —  Virginie  des  Violets ; 
and  he  looked  at  all  the  others,  and  in  some  hidden  cor- 
ner of  every  one  was  the  initials  of  the  same  name,  —  V. 
des  V. 

"  '  That  should  be  your  name,  Mrs.  Devereux,'  says 
he. 

"  '  0,  jio  ! '  says  I.     '  My  name  's  Faith.' 

"  Well,  and  on  that  he  asked,  was  there  no  more  ;  and 
so  I  took  off  the  little  chain  that  I  've  always  worn  and 
showed  him  that,  and  he  asked  if  there  was  a  face  in  it, 
in  what  we  tliought  was  a  coin,  you  know ;  and  I  said, 
O,  it  did  n't  open ;  and  he  turned  it  over  and  over,  and 
finally  something  snapped,  and  there  teas  a  face,  —  here, 
you  shall  see  it,  Georgie." 

And  Faith  drew  it  from  her  bosom,  and  opened  and 
held  it  before  me  ;  for  I  'd  sat  with  my  needle  poised, 
and  forgetting  to  strike.  And  there  was  the  face  indeed, 
a  sad,  serious  face,  dark  and  sweet,  yet  the  image  of 
Paith,  and  with  the  same  mouth,  —  that  so  lovely  in  a 
woman  becomes  weak  in  a  man,  —  and  on  the  other  side 
there  were  a  few  threads  of  hair,  with  the  same  darkness 
and  fineness  as  Faith's  hair,  and  under  them  a  little  pic- 
ture chased  in  the  gold  and  enamelled,  which  from  what 


140  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

I  've  read  since  I  suppose  must  have  been  the  crest  of 
the  Des  Violets. 

''•  And  what  did  Mr.  Gabriel  say  then  ?  "  I  asked,  giv- 
ing it  back  to  Taith,  who  put  her  head  into  the  old  posi- 
tion again. 

"  0,  he  acted  real  queer !  Talked  French,  too,  —  O, 
so  fast !  '  The  very  rnau ! '  then  he  cried  out.  '  The 
man  himself !  His  portrait,  —  I  have  seen  it  a  hundred 
times  ! '  And  then  he  told  me  that  about  a  dozen  years 
ago  or  more,  a  ship  sailed  from  —  from  —  I  forget  the 
place  exactly,  somewhere  up  there  where  he  came  from, 

—  Mr.  Gabriel,  I  mean,  —  and  among  the  passengers 
was  this  man  and  his  wife,  and  his  little  daughter,  whose 
name  was  Virginie  des  Violets,  and  the  ship  was  never 
heard  from  again.  But  he  says  that  without  a  doubt 
I  'm  the  little  daughter  and  my  name  is  Virginie,  though 
I  suppose  every  one '11  call  me  Faith.  O,  and  that  isn't 
the  queerest !  Tlie  queerest  is,  this  gentleman,"  and 
Faith  lifted  her  head,  "  was  very  rich.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  much  he  owned.  Lands  that  you  can  walk  on  a 
whole  day  and  not  come  to  the  end,  and  ships,  and  gold. 
And  the  whole  of  it 's  lying  idle  and  waiting  for  an  heir, 

—  and  I,  Georgie,  am  the  heir." 

And  Faith  told  it  with  cheeks  burning  and  eyes  shin- 
ing, but  yet  quite  as  if  she  'd  been  born  and  brought  up 
in  the  knowledge. 

"  It  don't  seem  to  move  you  much,  Faith,"  said  I,  per- 
fectly amazed,  although  I'd  frequently  expected  some- 
tiiing  of  the  kind. 

"  Well,  I  may  never  get  it,  and  so  on.  If  1  do,  1  'U 
give  you  a  silk  dress  and  set  you  up  in  a  bookstore.     But 


I 


THE  SOUTH  diiEx\k::r.  Ill 

here  's  a  queerer  thing  yet.  Des  Violets  is  the  way  Mr. 
Gabriel's  own  name  is  spelt,  and  his  father  and  mine  — 
his  mother  and  —  Well,  some  way  or  other  we  're  sort  of 
cousins.  Only  think,  Georgie  !  is  n't  that  —  I  thought, 
to  be  sure,  when  he  quartered  at  our  house,  Dan'd  begin 
to  take  me  to  do,  if  I  looked  at  him  sideways,  —  make  the 
same  fuss  that  he  does  if  I  nod  to  jtiiy  of  the  other  young 
men." 

"  I  don't  think  Dan  speaks  before  he  should,  Faith." 

*'  Why  don't  you  say  Virginie  ?  "  says  she,  laughing. 

"  Because  Faith  you  've  always  been,  and  Faith  you  '11 
have  to  remain,  with  us,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

"  Well,  that 's  as  it  may  be.  But  Dan  can't  object 
now  to  my  going  where  I  'm  a  mind  to  with  my  own 
cousin !  "  And  here  Faith  laid  her  ear  on  the  ball  of 
yam  again. 

"Hasten,  headsman!"  said  she,  out  of  a  novel,  ''or 
they  '11  wonder  where  I  am." 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "just  let  me  run  the  needle 
through  the  emery." 

"  Yes,  Georgie,"  said  Faith,  going  back  with  her  mem- 
ories while  I  sharpened  my  steel,  "Mr.  Gabriel  and  I 
are  kin.  And  he  said  that  the  moment  he  laid  eyes  on 
me  he  knew  I  was  of  different  blood  from  the  rest  of  the 
people  —  " 

"  What  people  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  Why,  you,  and  Dan,  and  all  these.  And  he  said  he 
Avas  struck  to  stone  when  he  heard  I  was  married  to 
Dan,  —  I  must  have  been  entrapped,  —  the  courts  would 
annul  it,  —  any  one  could  see  the   difference  between 


142  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Here  was  my  moment,  and  I  didn't  spare  it,  but 
jabbed  the  needle  into  the  ball  of  yani,  if  licr  ear  did  lie 
between  them. 

"  Yes !  "  says  I,  "  anybody  witli  half  an  eye  can  see 
the  difference  between  you,  and  that 's  a  fact !  Nobody  'd 
ever  imai^ine  for  a  breath  that  you  were  deserving  of 
Dan,  —  Ban,  who 's  so  noble  he  'd  die  for  wliat  he 
thought  was  right ;  you,  who  are  so  selfish  and  idle 
and  tickle  and  —  "^ 

And  at  that  Taith  burst  out  crying. 

"  0,  I  never  expected  you  'd  talk  about  me  so,  Gcor- 
gie  !  "  said  she  between  her  sobs.  "  How  could  /  tell 
you  were  such  a  mighty  friend  of  Dan's  ?  And  besides, 
if  ever  I  was  Yirginie  des  Violets,  I  'm  Taith  Devereux 
now,  and  Dan  '11  resent  anT/  one's  speaking  so  about  his 
wife!" 

And  she  stood  up,  the  tears  sparkling  like  diamonds  in 
her  liashhig  dark  eyes,  her  checks  red,  and  her  little  list 
clinched. 

"  That 's  the  right  spirit,  Taith,"  says  I,  "  and  I  'm 
glad  to  see  you  show  it.  And  as  for  this  young  Cana- 
dian, the  best  thing  to  do  yn\\\  him  is  to  send  him  pack- 
ing. I  don't  believe  a  word  he  says;  it's  more  than 
likely  nothing  but  to  get  into  your  good  graces." 

"  But  there 's  the  names,"  said  she,  so  astonished  that 
she  did  n't  remember  she  was  angry. 

"  Happened  so." 

"  O,  yes  !  '  Happened  so ' !  A  likely  story  !  It 's 
nothing  but  your  envy,  and  tliat's  all!  " 

"Paith!"  says  I,  for  I  forgot  she  didn't  know  liow 
close  she  btnick. 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  143 

"  Well,  —  I  mean  —  There,  don't  let 's  talk  about  it 
any  more  !  How  under  the  sun  am  I  gomg  to  get  these 
ends  tied  ?  " 

"  Come  here.     There  !     Now  for  the  other  one." 

"  No,  I  sha'  n't  let  you  do  that ;  you  hurt  me  dread- 
fully, and  you  got  angry,  and  took  the  big  needle." 

"  I  thought  you  expected  to  be  hurt." 

"  I  did  n't  expect  to  be  stabbed." 

"  Well,  just  as  you  please.  I  suppose  you  '11  go  round 
with  one  ear-ring." 

"  Like  a  little  pig  with  his  ear  cropped  ?  No,  I  shall 
do  it  myself.  See  there,  Georgie !  "  And  she  threw  a 
bit  of  a  box  into  my  hands. 

I  opened  it,  and  there  lay  inside,  on  their  velvet  cush- 
ion, a  pair  of  the  prettiest  things  you  ever  saw,  —  a  tiny 
bunch  of  white  grapes,  and  every  grape  a  round  pearl, 
and  all  hung  so  that  they  would  tinkle  together  on  their 
golden  stems  every  time  Paith  shook  her  head,  —  and 
she  had  a  cunning  little  way  of  shaking  it  often  enough. 

"  These  must  have,  cost  a  peimy,  Faith,"  said  I. 
"  Where  'd  you  get  them  ?  " 

"Mr.  Gabriel  gave  them  to  me  just  now.  He  went 
up  town  and  bought  them.  And  I  don't  want  him  to 
know  that  my  ears  were  n't  bored." 

"  Mr.  Gabriel  ?     And  you  took  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  took  them,  and  mighty  glad  to  get 
them." 

"  Faith  dear,"  said  I,  "  don't  you  know  that  you 
should  n't  accept  presents  from  gentlemen,  and  espe- 
cially now  you  're  a  married  woman,  and  especially  from 
those  of  higher  station  ?  " 


14^  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  But  he  is  n't  liiglicr." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  Aud  then,  too,  he  is  ;  for 
one  ahvays  takes  rank  from  one's  husband." 

Eaith  looked  rather  downcast  at  this. 

"  Yes,"  said  I ;  "  and  pearls  and  calico  —  " 

"  Just  because  you  have  n't  got  a  pair  yourself ! 
There,  be  still !  I  don't  want  any  of  your  instructions 
in  duty  !  " 

"  You  ought  to  put  up  with  a  word  from  a  friend, 
Faith,"  said  I.  "You  always  come  to  me  with  your 
,  grievances.  And  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do.  You  used 
to  like  these  coral  branches  of  mine ;  and  if  you  '11  give 
those  back  to  Mr.  Gabriel,  you  shall  have  tlie  coral." 

Well,  Faith,  she  hesitated,  standing  there  trying  to 
muster  her  mind  to  the  needle,  and  it  ended  by  her 
taking  the  coral,  though  I  don't  believe  she  returned  the 
pearls ;  but  we  none  of  us  ever  saw  them  afterwards. 

We  'd  been  talking  in  a  pretty  low  tone,  because  mother 
was  asleep;  and  just  as  she'd  finished  the  other  ear,  and 
a  httle  drop  of  blood  stood  up  on -it  like  a  live  ruby,  the 
door  opened  and  Dan  and  Mr.  Gabriel  came  in.  There 
never  was  a  prettier  picture  tiian  Faith  at  that  moment, 
and  so  the  young  stranger  thought,  for  he  stared  at  her, 
smiling  and  at  ease,  just  as  if  she  'd  been  hung  in  a  gal- 
lery and  he  'd  bought  a  ticket.  So  then  he  sat  down  and 
repeated  to  Dan  aud  mother  what  she  'd  told  me,  and  he 
promised  to  send  for  the  papers  to  prove  it  all.  But  he 
never  did  send  for  them,  —  delaying  and  delaying,  till 
the  summer  wore  away ;  and  perhaps  there  were  such 
pa])ers  and  perhaps  there  were  n't.  I  've  always  tliought 
lie  didn't  want  liis  own  friends  to  know  where  he  was. 


1 


THE    SOUm    BllEAKEll.  145 

Dan  m'i^lit  ba  a  rich  man  to-day,  if  he  cliose  to  kjok 
thero  np ;  but  he  'd  scorch  at  a  slow  fire  before  he  'd 
touch  a  copper  of  it.  Father  never  believed  a  word 
about  it,  when  wo  recited  it  again  to  him. 

"  So  Eaith  's  come  into  her  fortune,  has  she  ?  "  said 
he.  "  Pretty  child  !  She  'a'n't  had  so  much  before  sence 
she  f-^ll  heir  to  old  Miss  Devereux's  best  chany,  her  six 
silver  spoons,  and  her  surname." 

So  the  days  passed,  and  tlie  greater  part  of  every 
one  Mr.  Gabriel  was  dabbling  in  the  water  somewhere. 
There  was  u't  a  brook  within  ten  miles  that  he  did  n't 
empty  of  trout,  for  Dan  knew  the  woods  as  well  as  the 
shores,  and  he  knew  the  clear  nights  when  the  insects  can 
keep  free  from  the  water  so  that  next  day  the  fish  rise 
hungry  to  the  surface  ;  and  so  sometimes  in  the  brightest 
of  May  noons  they  'd  bring  home  a  string  of  those  beau- 
ties, speckled  with  little  tongues  of  fiame ;  and  Mr. 
Gabriel  would  have  them  cooked,  and  make  ns  all  taste 
them,  —  for  we  don't  care  much  for  that  sort,  down  here 
on  the  Flats  ;  we  should  thmk  we  were  famished  if  we 
had  to  eat  fish.  And  then  they  'd  lie  in  wait  all  day  for 
the  darting  pickerel  in  the  little  Stream  of  Shadows 
above  ;  and  when  it  came  June,  up  the  river  he  went 
trolling  for  bass,  and  he  used  a  difi'erent  sort  of  bait 
from  the  rest,  —  bass  won't  bite  much  at  clams,  —  and 
he  hauled  in  great  forty-pounders.  And  sometimes,  m 
the  afternoons,  he  took  out  Faith  and  me,  —  for,  as 
Faith  would  go,  whether  or  no,  I  always  made  it  a  point 
to  put  by  everything  and  go  too  ;  and  I  used  to  try  and 
get  some  of  the  other  girls  in,  but  Mr.  Gabriel  never 
vrould   take   them,  though   he  w^s   liail-fellow-wpU-met 

VOL.  VII.  7  T 


11-6  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

with  everybody,  and  was  everybody's  favorite,  and  it  was 
known  all  round  how  he  found  out  Faith,  and  that  alone 
made  him  so  popular,  that  I  do  beUeve,  if  he  'd  only 
taken  out  naturalization  papers,  we  'd  have  sent  him  to 
General  Court.  And  then  it  grew  time  for  the  river  mack- 
erel, and  they  used  to  bring  in  at  sunset  two  or  three 
hundred  in  a  shining  heap,  together  with  great  lobsters, 
that  looked  as  if  they  'd  been  carved  out  of  heliotrope- 
stone,  and  so  old  that  they  were  barnacled.  And  it  was 
so  novel  to  Mr.  Gabriel,  that  he  used  to  act  as  if  he  'd 
fallen  in  ftiiry-land. 

After  all,  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have  done 
without  him  that  summer ;  he  always  paid  Dan  or 
father  a  dollar  a  day  and  the  hire  of  the  boat ;  and  the 
times  were  so  hard,  and  there  was  so  little  doing,  that, 
but  for  this,  and  packing  the  barrels  of  clam-bait,  they  'd 
have  been  idle  and  fared  sorely.  But  we  'd  rather  have 
starved  :  though,  as  for  that,  I  've  heard  father  say  there 
never  was  a  time  when  he  could  n't  go  out  and  catch 
some  sort  of  fish  and  sell  it  for  enough  to  get  us  some- 
thing to  eat.  And  then  this  Mr.  Gabriel,  he  had  such  a 
winning  way  with  him,  he  was  as  quick  at  wit  as  a  bird 
on  the  wing,  he  had  a  story  or  a  song  for  every  point, 
he  seemed  to  take  to  our  simple  life  as  if  he  'd  been  born 
to  it,  and  -he  was  as  much  interested  in  all  our  trifles 
as  wc  \vere  ourselves.  Then,  he  was  so  sympathetic, 
he  felt  everybody's  troubles,  he  went  to  the  city  and 
brought  down  a  wonderful  doctor  to  see  mother,  and  he 
got  her  queer  things  that  helped  her  more  than  you  'd 
have  thought  anything  could,  and  he  went  himself  and 
set  honevsuf'kles  out    all    round    Dan's    house,  so   that 


THE    SOUTH    IJREAKER.  117 

before  summer  Avas  over  it  was  a  boMcr  of  great  sweet 
blows,  and  he  had  au  ahns  for  every  beggar,  a*id  a  kind 
word  for  every  urchin,  and  he  folloAved  Dan  about  as  a 
child  would  follow  some  big  shaggy  dog.  He  intro- 
duced, too,  a  lot  of  new-fangled  games;  he  was  wliat 
they  called  a  gymnast,  and  in  feats  of.  rassling  there 
was  n't  a  man  among  them  all  but  he  could  stretch  as 
flat  as  a  flounder.  And  then  he  always  treated.  Every- 
body had  a  place  for  him  soon,  —  even  /  did  ;  and  as  for 
Dan,  he  'd  have  cut  his  own  heart  out  of  his  body,  if 
Mr.  Gabriel  'd  had  occasion  to  use  it.  He  was  a  difl'er- 
ent  man  from  any  Dan  'd  ever  met  before,  something 
finer,  and  he  might  have  been  better,  and  Dan's  loyal 
soul  was  glad  to  acknowledge  him  master,  and  I  de- 
clare I  beUeve  he  felt  just  as  the  Jacobites  in  the  old 
songs  used  to  feel  for  royal  Charlie.  There  are  some 
men  bom  to  rule  with  a  haughty,  careless  sweetness, 
and  others  born  to  die  for  them  with  stern  and  dogged 
devotion. 

Well,  and  all  this  while  Faith  was  n't  standing  still ; 
she  was  changing  steadily,  as  much  as  ever  the  moon 
changed  in  the  sky.  I  noticed  it  first  one  day  when  Mr. 
Gabriel'd  caught  every  child  in  the  region  and  given 
them  a  picnic  in  the  woods  of  the  Stack- Yard-Gate,  and 
Faith  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  tiptoeing  round  every  one 
as  she  used  to  do,  but  I  found  her  at  last  standing  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  —  Mr.  Gabriel  dancing  here  and  there, 
seeing  to  it  that  all  should  be  as  gay  as  he  seemed  to  be, 
—  quiet  and  dignified  as  you  please,  and  feeling  every  one 
of  her  inches.  But  it  was  n't  dignity  really  that  was  the 
matter  with  Faith,  —  it  was  just  gloom.     She  'd  brighten 


148  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

up  for  a  momeut  or  two,  and  then  down  would  fall  the 
cloud  again;  she  took  to  long  fits  of  dreaming,  and 
sometimes  she  'd  burst  out  crying  at  any  careless  word, 
so  that  my  heart  fairly  bled  for  the  poor  child,  —  for  one 
could  n't  help  seeing  that  she  'd  some  secret  unhappi- 
ness  or  other,  —  and  I  was  as  gentle  and  soothing  to  her 
as  it 's  in  my  nature  to  be.  She  was  in  to  our  house  a 
good  deal;  she  kept  it  pretty  well  out  of  Dan's  way, 
and  I  hoped  she  'd  get  over  it  sooner  or  later,  and  make 
up  her  mind  to  circumstances.  And  I  talked  to  her 
a  sight  about  Dan,  praising  him  constantly  before  her, 
thongli  I  couldn't  bear  to  do  it;  and  finally,  one  very 
confidential  evenhig,  I  told  her  that  I  'd  been  in  love 
with  Dan  myself  once  a  Httle,  but  1  'd  seen  that  he  would 
marry  her,  and  so  had  left  off  thinking  about  it ;  for,  do 
you  know,  I  thought  it  might  make  her  set  more  price 
on  him  now,  if  she  knew  somebody  else  had  ever  cared 
for  him.  Well,  that  did  answer  awhile :  whether  she 
thought  she  ought  to  make  it  up  to  Dan,  or  whether  he 
really  did  grow  more  in  her  eyes,  Faith  got  to  bciiig  very 
neat  and  domestic  and  praiseworthy.  But  still  there 
was  the  change,  and  it  didn't  make  her  any  the  less 
lovely.  Indeed,  if  I  'd  been  a  man,  I  should  have  cared 
for  her  more  than  ever  :  it  was  like  turning  a  child  into  a 
■woman :  and  I  really  think,  as  Dan  saw  her  going  aliout 
with  such  a  pleasant  gravity,  her  pretty  figure  moving  so 
quietly,  her  pretty  face  so  still  and  fair,  as  if  she  had 
thoughts  and  feelings  now,  he  began  to  wonder  what 
had  come  over  Taith,  and,  if  she  were  really  as  charming 
as  this,  why  he  had  n't  felt  it  before  ;  and  then,  you  kiioAV, 
whether  vou  love  a  woman  or  not,  the  mere  fact  that 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKEIl.  149 

slic  's  your  wife,  that  her  life  is  sunk  in  yours,  tliat  she 's 
soinetliing  for  you  to  protect,  and  that  your  honor  Hes  in 
doing  so,  gives  you  a  certain  kindly  feeling  that  might 
ripen  into  love  any  day  under  sunshine  and  a  south  wall. 

Blue-fish  were  about  done  with,  when  one  day  Dan 
brought  in  some  mackerel  from  Boon  Island :  they 
hadn't  been  in  the  harbor  for  some  time,  though  now 
there  was  a  probability  of  their  return.  So  they  were 
going  out  when  the  tide  served  —  the  two  boys  —  at 
midnight  for  mackerel,  and  Dan  had  heard  me  wish  for 
the  experience  so  often,  a  long  while  ago,  that  he  said. 
Why  should  n't  they  take  the  girls  ?  and  Faith  snatched 
at  the  idea,  and  with  that  Mr.  Gabriel  agreed  to  fetch 
me  at  the  hour,  and  so  w^e  parted.  I  was  kind  of  sorry, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

When  we  started,  it  was  in  that  clear  crystal  dark 
that  looks  as  if  you  could  see  through  it  forever  till  you 
reached  infinite  things,  and  we  seemed  to  be  in  a  great 
hollow  sphere,  and  the  stars  were  like  living  beings  who 
had  the  night  to  themselves.  Always,  when  I  'm  up  late, 
I  feel  as  if  it  were  something  unlawful,  as  if  affairs  were 
in  progress  which  I  had  no  right  to  witness,  a  kind  of 
grand  freemasonry.  I  've  felt  it  nights  when  I  've  been 
watching  with  mother,  and  there  has  come  up  across  t\m 
heavens  the  great  caravan  of  constellations,  and  a  star 
that  I  'd  pulled  away  the  curtain  on  the  east  side  to  see 
came  by  and  by  and  looked  in  at  the  south  window ;  but 
I  never  felt  it  as  I  did  this  night.  The  tide  was  near 
the  full,  and  so  we  went  slipping  down  the  dark  w^ater  by 
the  starlight ;  and  as  we  saw  them  shining  above  us,  and 


150  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

then  looked  down  and  saw  them  sparkling  np  from  beneath, 
—  the  stars,  — it  really  seemed  as  if  Dan's  oars  must  be 
two  long  wings,  as  if  we  swam  on  them  through  a  mo- 
tionless air.  By  and  by  we  were  in  the  island  creek,  and 
far  ahead,  in  a  streak  of  wind  that  did  n't  reach  us,  we 
could  see  a  pointed  sail  skimming  along  between  the 
banks,  as  if  some  ghost  went  before  to  show  us  the  way ; 
and  when  the  first  hush  and  mystery  wore  off,  Mr.  Ga- 
briel was  singing  httle  French  songs  in  tunes  like  the 
rise  and  fall  of  the  tide.  While  he  sang  he  rowed,  and 
Dan  was  gangcing  the  hooks.  At  length  Dan  took  the 
oars  again,  and  every  now  and  then  he  paused  to  let  us 
float  along  with  the  tide  as  it  slacked,  and  take  the  sense 
of  the  night.  And  all  the  tall  grass  that  edged  the  side 
began  to  wave  in  a  strange  light,  and  there  blew  on  a 
little  breeze,  and  over  the  rim  of  the  world  tipped  up  a 
waning  moon.  If  there  'd  been  anything  needed  to  make 
us  feel  as  if  we  were  going  to  find  the  Witcli  of  Endor, 
it  was  this.  It  was  such  a  strange  moon,  pointing  such 
a  strange  way,  with  such  a  strange  color,  so  remote,  and 
so  glassy,  —  it  was  like  a  dead  moon,  or  the  spirit  of 
one,  and  was  perfectly  awful. 

"She  has  come  to  look  at  Faith,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel; 
for  Faith,  who  once  would  have  been  nodding  here  and 
xirfiere  all  about  the  boat,  was  sitting  up  pale  and  sad,  like 
anotlier  spirit,  to  confront  it.  But  Dan  and  I  both  felt  a 
diflerence. 

Mr.  Galiricl,  lie  stepped  across  and  went  and  sat  down 
behind  Faith,  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  her  arm.  Per- 
ha[)s  he  didn't  mind  that  he  touched  her, — he  had  a 
kind   of  absent  air  ;  but    if  any  one  had   looked  at  the 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  151 

nervous  pressure  of  the  clender  fingers,  they  would  have 
seen  as  much  meaning  in  that  touch  as  in  many  an  em- 
brace ;  and  Faith  lifted  her  face  to  his,  and  they  forgot 
that  I  was  looking  at  them,  and  into  the  eyes  of  bjth 
there  stole  a  strange,  deep  smile,  —  and  my  soul  groaned 
withm  me.  It  made  no  odds  to  me  then  that  the  air  blew 
warm  off  the  land  from  scented  hay-ricks,  that  the  moon 
hung  Hke  some  exhumed  jewel  in  the  sky,  that  all  the 
perfect  night  was  widening  into  dawn.  I  saw  and  felt 
nothing  but  the  wretchedness  that  must  break  one  day 
on  Dan's  head.  Should  I  warn  him  ?  I  could  n't  do 
that.     And  what  then  ? 

The  sail  was  up,  we  had  left  the  headland  and  the  hills, 
and  when  they  furled  it  and  cast  anchor  we  were  swing- 
ing far  out  on  the  back  of  the  great  monster  that  was 
frolicking  to  itself  and  thinking  no  more  of  us  than  we 
do  of  a  mote  in  the  air.  Elder  Snow,  he  says  that  it 's 
singular  we  regard  day  as  illumination  and  night  as  dark- 
ness, —  day  that  really  hems  us  in  with  narrow  light  and 
shuts  us  upon  ourselves,  night  that  sets  us  free  and  re- 
veals to  us  all  the  secrets  of  the  sky.  I  thought  of  that 
when  one  by  one  the  stars  melted  and  the  moon  became 
a  breath,  and  up  over  the  wide  grayness  crept  color  and 
radiance  and  the  sun  himself,  —  the  sky  soaring  higher 
and  higher,  like  a  great  thin  bubble  of  flaky  hues,  —  and, 
all  about,  nothing  but  the  everlasting  wash  of  waters 
broke  the  sacred  hush.  And  it  seemed  as  if  God  had 
been  with  us,  and  withdrawing  we  saw  the  trail  of  his 
splendid  garments ;  and  I  remembered  the  words  mother 
had  spoken  to  Dan  once  before,  and  why  could  n't  I  leave 
him  in  heavenly  hands  ?     And  then  it  came  into  my  heart 


15^  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

to  pray.  I  knew  I  had  n't  any  right  to  pray  expectmg 
to  be  heard  ;  but  yet  mine  "would  be  the  prayer  of  the 
humble,  and  \vas  n't  Faith  of  as  much  consequence  as  a 
sparrow  ?  By  and  by,  as  we  all  sat  leaning  over  the 
gunwale,  the  words  of  a  hymn  that  I'd  heard  at  camp- 
meetings  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  sang  them  out,  loud 
and  clear.  I  always  had  a  good  voice,  though  Dan  'd 
never  heard  me  do  anything  with  it  except  hum  little  low 
things,  putting  mother  to  sleep  ;  but  here  I  had  a  whole 
sky  to  sing  in,  and  the  hymns  were  tnmipet-calls.  And 
one  after  another  they  kept  thronging  u]),  and  there  was 
a  rush  of  feeling  in  them  that  made  you  shiver,  and  as  I 
sang  them  they  thrilled  me  through  and  through.  Wide 
as  the  way  before  us  was,  it  seemed  to  widen ;  I  felt  myself 
journeying  with  some  vast  host  towards  the  city  of  God, 
and  its  light  poured  over  us,  and  there  was  nothing  but 
joy  and  love  and  praise  and  exulting  expectancy  in  my 
heart.  And  when  the  hymn  died  on  my  lips  because  the 
words  were  too  faint  and  the  tune  was  too  weak  for  the 
ecstasy,  and  when  the  silence  had  soothed  me  back  again, 
I  turned  and  saw  Dan's  lips  bitten,  and  his  check  white, 
and  his  eyes  like  stars,  and  Mr.  Gabriel's  face  fallen  for- 
ward in  his  hands,  and  he  shaking  with  quick  sobs ;  and 
as  for  Faith,  —  Faith,  she  had  dropped  asleep,  and  one 
arm  was  thrown  above  her  head,  and  the  other  lay  where 
it  had  slipped  from  Mr.  Gabriel's  loosened  grasp.  There 
's  a  contagion,  you  know,  in  such  things,  but  Failli  was 
never  of  the  catching  kind. 

"Well,  this  was  n't  what  we  'd  come  for,  —  turning  all 
out-doors  into  a  church,  —  though  what 's  a  church  but 
a  place  of  God 's  presence  ?  and  for  my  part,  I  never  see 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  153 

high  blue  sky  and  siinsliiue  ^Yithollt  feeling  that.  And 
all  of  a  sudden  there  came  a  school  of  mackerel  splashing 
and  darkening  and  curling  round  the  boat,  after  the  bait 
we  'd  thrown  out  on  anchoring.  'T  would  have  done 
you  good  to  see  Dan  just  at  that  moment ;  you  'd  have 
realized  what  it  was  to  have  a  calling.  He  started  up, 
forgetting  everything  else,  his  face  all  flushed,  his  eyes 
like  coals,  his  mouth  tight  and  his  tongue  silent;  and 
how  many  hooks  he  had  out  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,  but 
lie  kept  jerking  them  in  by  twos  and  threes,  and  finally 
tliey  bit  at  the  bare  barb  and  were  taken  without  any 
bait  at  all,  just  as  if  they  'd  come  and  asked  to  be  caught. 
Mr.  Gabriel,  he  did  n't  pay  any  attention  at  first,  but 
Dan  called  to  him  to  stir  himself,  and  so  gradually4ie 
worked  back  into  his  old  mood ;  but  he  was  more  still 
and  something  sad  all  the  rest  of  the  morning.  Well, 
when  we  'd  gotten  about  enough,  and  they  were  dying 
in  the  boat  there,  as  they  cast  their  scales,  like  the  iris, 
we  put  in-shore ;  and  building  a  fire,  we  cooked  our  own 
dinner  and  boiled  our  own  cofi'ee.  Many 's  the  icy  win- 
ter night  I  've  wrapped  up  Dan's  bottle  of  hot  coffee  in 
rolls  on  rolls  of  flannel,  that  he  might  drink  it  hot  and 
strong  far  out  at  sea  in  a  wherry  at  daybreak  ! 

But  as  I  was  saying,  —  all  this  time,  Mr.  Gabriel,  he 
scarcely  looked  at  Faith.  At  first  she  didn't  compre- 
hend, and  then  something  swam  aU  over  her  face  as  if 
the  very  blood  in  her  veins  had  grown  darker,  and  there 
was  such  danger  in  her  eye  that  before  we  stepped  into 
the  boat  again  I  wished  to  goodness  I  had  a  life-pre- 
server. But  in  the  beginning  the  reUgious  impression 
lasted  and  gave  him  great  resolutions  ;  and  then  strolling 
7*, 


154  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

off  and  along  tlie  bcacli,  he  fell  in  -u-itli  some  men  there 
and  did  as  he  always  did,  scraped  acquaintance.  I  yerily 
believe  that  these  men  were  total  strangers/ that  he  'd 
never  laid  eyes  on  them  before,  and  after  a  few  words  he 
wheeled  about.  As  he  did  so,  liis  glance  fell  on  Faith 
standing  there  alone  against  the  pale  sky,  for  the  weath- 
er 'd  thickened,  and  watching  the  surf  break  at  her  feet. 
He  was  motionless,  gazing  at  her  long,  and  then,  when 
he  had  turned  once  or  twice  irresolutely,  he  ground  his 
lieel  into  the  sand  and  went  back.  The  men  rose  and 
wandered  on  with  him,  and  they  talked  together  for  a 
while,  and  I  saw  money  pass ;  and  pretty  soon  Mr. 
Gabriel  returned,  his  face  vividly  pallid,  but  smiling,  and 
lie  had  in  his  hand  some  little  bright  shells  that  you  don't 
often  find  on  these  Northern  beaches,  and  he  said  he  had 
bought  them  of  those  men.  And  all  this  time  he  *d  not 
spoken  with  Faith,  and  there  was  the  danger  yet  in  her 
rye.  But  nothing  came  of  it,  and  I  had  accused  myself 
of  nearly  every  crime  in  the  Decalogue,  and  on  the  way 
];ack  we  had  put  up  the  lines,  and  Mr.  Gabriel  had  hauled 
in  tlic  lobster-net  for  the  last  time.  He  liked  that  branch 
of  the  business ;  he  said  it  had  all  the  excitement  of 
gambling,  —  the  slow  settling  downwards,  the  fading  of 
tlie  last  ripple,  the  impenetrable  depth  and  shade  and  the 
iny.stery  of  the  work  below,  five  minutes  of  expectation, 
and  it  might  bring  uj)  a  scale  of  the  soa-soi-}ient,  or  the 
king  of  the  crabs  might  have  crept  in  for  a  nap  in  the 
folds,  or  it  might  come  up  as  if  you  'd  dredgrdi  for  pearls, 
or  it  might  hold  the  great  backward-crawling  lobsters,  or 
a  tangle  of  sea-weed,  or  the  long  yellow  locks  of  some 
drowned  girl,  —  or  nothing  at  all.     So  he  always  drew 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKEli.  155 

in  that  net,  and  it  needed  muscle,  and  his  was  like  steel, 
—  not  good  for  much  in  the  long  pull,  but  just  for  a 
breathing  could  handle  the  biggest  boatman  in  the  har- 
bor. Well,  —  and  we  'd  hoisted  the  sail  and  were  in  the 
creek  once  more,  for  the  creek  was  only  to  be  used  at 
high-water,  and  I  'd  told  Dan  I  could  n't  be  away  from 
mother  over  another  tide  and  so  we  must  n't  get  aground, 
and  he  'd  told  me  not  to  fret,  there  was  nothing  too 
shallow  for  us  on  the  coast.  "This  boat,"  said  Dan, 
"  she  '11  float  in  a  heavy  dew."  And  he  began  singing  a 
song  he  liked  :  — 

"  I  cast  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 

And  fishes  I  caught  nine: 
There  's  three  to  boil,  and  three  to  fry. 

And  three  to  bait  the  Une." 

And  Mr.  Gabriel  'd  never  heard  it  before,  and  he  made 
him  sing  it  again  and  again. 

"  The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 
The  boatie  rows  indeed," 

repeated  Mr.  Gabriel,  and  he  said  it  was  the  only  song 
he  knew  that  held  the  click  of  the  oar  in  the  rowlock. 

The  little  birds  went  skimming  by  us,  as  we  sailed, 
their  breasts  upon  the  water,  and  we  could  see  the  gun- 
ners creeping  through  the  marshes  beside  them. 

"  The  wind  changes,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel.  "  The  equi- 
nox treads  close  behind  us.  Sst !  Is  it  that  you  do  not 
feel  its  breath  ?     And  you  hear  nothing  ?  " 

"  It 's  the  Soul  of  the  Bar,"  said  Dan ;  and  he  fell  to  tell- 
ing us  one  of  the  wild  stories  that  fishermen  can  tell  each 
other  by  the  lantern,  rocking  outside  at  night  in  tjie  dory. 


150  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

The  wind  was  dead  east,  and  now  we  flew  before  it, 
and  now  we  tacked  in  it,  up  and  up  the  winding  stream, 
and  always  a  little  pointed  sail  came  skimming  on  in  suit. 

"  What  sail  is  that,  Dan  ?  "  asked  I.  "  It  looks  like 
the  one  that  flitted  ahead  this  morning." 

"  It  is  the  one,"  said  Dan,  —  for  he  'd  brought  up  a 
whole  horde  of  superstitious  memories,  and  a  gloom  that 
had  been  hovering  off  and  on  his  face  settled  there  for 
good.  "  As  much  of  a  one  as  that  was.  It 's  no  sail 
at  all.  It 's  a  death-sign.  And  I  've  never  been  down 
here  and  seen  it  but  trouble  was  on  its  heels.  Georgie  ! 
there  's  two  of  them  !  " 

We  all  looked,  but  it  was  hidden  hi  a  curve,  and  when 
it  stole  in  sight  again  there  toere  two  of  them,  filmy  and 
faint  as  spirits'  wings ;  and  while  we  gazed  they  van- 
ished, whether  supernaturally  or  in  the  mist  that  was 
rising  mast-high  I  never  thought,  for  my  blood  was 
frozen  as  it  ran. 

"  You  have  fear  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Gabriel,  —  his  face  per- 
fectly pale,  and  his  eye  almost  lost  in  darkness.  "If  it 
is  a  phantom,  it  can  do  you  no  harm." 

Faith's  teeth  chattered,  — I  saw  them.  He  turned  to 
her,  and  as  their  look  met,,  a  spot  of  carnation  burned 
into  his  cheek  almost  as  a  brand  would  have  burned. 
He  seemed  to  be  balancing  some 'point,  to  be  searching 
her  and  sifting  her;  and  Faith  half  rose,  proudly,  and 
pale,  as  if  his  look  pierced  her  with  pain.  The  look  was 
long,  —  but  before  it  fell,  a  glow  and  sparkle  filled  the 
eyes,  and  over  his  face  there  curled  the  deep,  strange 
smile  of  the  morning,  till  the  long  lids  and  heavy  lashes 
dropped  and  made  it  sad.     And  raith,  — she  started  in 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  157 

a  new  surprise,  the  darkness  gathered  and  crept  off  her 
face  as  cream  wrinkles  from  milk,  and  spleen  or  venom 
or  what-not  became  absorbed  again  and  lost,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  her  glance  but  passionate  forgetfulness. 
Some  souls  are  like  the  white  river-lilies,  —  fixed,  yet 
floating;  but  Mr.  Gabriel  had  no  firm  root  anywhere, 
and  was  blown  about  with  every  breeze,  like  a  leaf 
on  the  flood.  His  piirposes  melted  and  made  with  his 
moods. 

The  wind  got  round  more  to  the  north,  the  mist  fell 
upon  the  waters  or  blew  away  over  the  meadows,  and  it 
was  cold.  Mr.  Gabriel  wrapped  the  cloak  about  Faith 
and  fastened  it,  and  tied  her  bomiet.  Just  now  Dan  was 
so  busy  handling  the  boat,  —  and  it 's  ratlier  risky,  you 
have  to  vn-iggle  up  the  creek  so, — that  he  took  little 
notice  of  us.  Then  Mr.  Gabriel  stood  up,  as  if  to  change 
his  position;  and  taking  off  his  hat,  he  held  it  aloft, 
while  he  passed  the  other  hand  across  his  forehead. 
And  leaning  against  the  mast,  he  stood  so,  many  minutes. 

"  Dan,"  I  said,  "  did  your  spiritual  craft  ever  hang 
out  a  purple  pennant  ?  " 

''  No,"  said  Dan. 

"Well,"  says  I.  And  we  all  saw  a  little  purple  rib- 
bon running  up  the  rope  and  streaming  on  the  air 
behind  us. 

"  And  why  do  we  not  hoist  our  own  ? "  said  Mr. 
Gabriel,  putting  on  his  hat.  And  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word,  a  little  green  signal  curled  up  and  flaunted 
above  us  like  a  bunch  of  the  weed  floating  there  in  the 
water  beneath  and  dyeing  all  the  shallows  so  that  they 
looked  like  caves  of  cool  emerald,  and  wide  off  and  over 


158  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

tliem  the  west  burned  smoulderingly  red  like  a  furnace. 
Many  a  time  since,  I  've  felt  tlie  magical  color  between 
tliose  banks  and  along  those  meadows,  but  then  I  felt 
none  of  it ;  every  wit  I  had  w' as  too  awake  and  alert  and 
fast-fixed  in  watching. 

"  Is  it  that  the  phantoYns  can  bo  flesh  and  blood  ?  " 
said  ]Mr.  Gabriel,  laughingly ;  and,  lifting  Ms  arm  again, 
he  hailed  the  ibremost. 

"  Boat  ahoy  !     What  names  ?  "  said  he. 

The  answer  came  back  on  the  wind  full  and  round. 

"  Speed,  and  Follow." 

"Where  from  ?"  asked  Dan,  with  just  a  glint  in  his 
eye  :  for  usually  be  knew  every  boat  on  the  river,  but 
he  did  n't  know  these. 

"  From  the  schooner  Flyaway,  taking  in  sand  over  at 
Black  Rocks." 

Then  Mr.  Gabriel  spoke  again,  as  they  drew  near ; 
but  whether  he  spoke  so  fast  that  I  could  n't  understand, 
or  whether  he  spoke  Trench,  I  never  knew ;  and  Dan, 
with  some  kind  of  feeling  that  it  was  Mr.  Gabriel's  ac- 
quaintance, suffered  the  one  we  spoke  to  pass  us. 

Once  or  twice  Mr.  Gabriel  had  begun  some  question 
to  Dan  about  the  approaching  weather,  but  had  turned 
it  off  again  before  anybody  could  answer.  You  see  he 
had  some  little  nobility  left,  and  didn't  want  the  very 
man  he  was  going  to  injure  to  show  him  how  to  do  it. 
Now,  however,  lie  asked  him  that  was  steering  the 
Speed  by,  if  it  was  going  to  storm. 

The  man  tliouglit  it  was. 

"  How  is  it,  then,  that  your  schooner  prc])arcs  to 
sail  ?  " 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  159 

"  0,  wind 's  backed  in ;  wc  '11  be  on  blue  water  before 
tlie  gale  breaks,  I  reckon,  and  then  beat  oil"  where  there  's 
plenty  of  sea-room." 

"But  she  shall  make  sliip wreck  !  " 

" '  Not  if  the  court  know  herself,  and  he  think  she 
do,'  "  was  the  reply  from  another,  as  they  passed. 

Somehow  I  began  to  hate  myself,  I  was  so  full  of 
poisonous  suspicions.  How  did  Mr.  Gabriel  know  the 
schooner  prepared  to  sail  ?  And  this  man,  could  he  tell 
boom  from  bowsprit  ?  I  did  n't  believe  it ;  he  had  the 
hang  of  the  up-river  folks.  But  there  stood  Mr.  Gabriel, 
so  quiet  and  easy,  his  eyelids  down,  and  he  humming 
an  underbreath  of  song  ;  and  there  sat  Faith,  so  pale  and 
so  pretty,  a  trifle  sad,  a  trifle  that  her  conscience  would 
brew  for  her,  whether  or  no.  Yet,  after  all,  there  was 
an  odd  expression  in  Mr.  Gabriel's  face,  an  eager,  rest- 
less expectation ;  and  if  his  lids  were  lowered,  it  was 
only  to  hide  the  spark  that  flushed  and  quenched  in  his 
eye  like  a  beating  pulse. 

We  had  reached  the  draw,  it  was  lifted  for  the  Speed, 
she  had  passed,  and  the  wind  was  in  her  sail  once  more. 
Yet,  somehow,  she  hung  back.  And  then  I  saw  that  the 
men  in  her  were  of  those  with  whom  Mr.  Gabriel  had 
spoken  at  noon.  Dan's  sail  fell  slack,  and  we  drifted 
slowly  through,  while  he  poled  us  along  with  an  oar: 

"  Look  out,  Georgie !  "  said  Dan,  for  he  thought  I 
was  going  to  graze  my  shoulder  upon  the  side  there.  I 
looked ;  and  when  I  turned  again,  Mr.  Gabriel  was  ris- 
ing up  from  some  earnest  and  hurried  sentence  to  Faith. 
And  Faith,  too,  was  standing,  standing  and  swaying 
with   indecision,   and   gazing   away   out   before    her,  — ■ 


160  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

SO  flushed  and  so  beautiful,  —  so  loatli  and  so  willing. 
Poor  tiling  !  poor  tiling  !  as  if  her  rising  in  itself  were 
not  the  whole  ! 

Mr.  Gabriel  stepped  across  the  boat,  stooped  a  min- 
ute, and  then  also  took  an  oar.  How  perfect  he  was,  as 
he  stood  there  that  moment !  —  perfect  like  a  statue,  I 
mean,  —  so  slender,  so  clean-limbed,  his  dark  face  pale 
to  transparency  in  the  green  light  that  filtered  through 
the  draw !  and  then  a  ray  from  the  sunset  came  creeping 
over  the  edge  of  the  high  fields  and  smote  his  ey-es  side- 
long so  that  they  glowed  like  jewels,  and  he  with  his 
oar  planted  firmly  hung  there  bending  far  back  with  it, 
completely  full  of  strength  and  grace. 

"  It  is  not  the  bateaux  in  the  rapids,"  said  he. 

"  What  are  you  about  ? "  asked  Dan,  with  sudden 
hoarseness.     "  You  are  pulling  the  wrong  way  !  " 

Mr.  Gabriel  laughed,  and  threw  down  his  oar,  and 
stepped  back  again;  gave  his  hand  to  Faith,  and  half 
led,  half  lifted  her,  over  the  side,  and  into  the  Speed, 
followed,  and  never  looked  behind  him.  They  let  go 
something  they  had  held,  the  Speed  put  her  nose  in  tlie 
Avater  and  sprinkled  us  with  spray,  plunged,  and  dashed 
olF  like  an  arrow. 

It  was  like  him,  —  daring  and  insolent  coolness  !  Just 
like  liim  !  Always  the  soul  of  defiance  !  None  but  one 
so  reckless  and  impetuous  as  he  would  have  dreamed  of 
flying  into  the  teeth  of  the  tempest  in  that  shell  of  a 
schooner.  But  he  was  mad  with  love,  and  they  —  there 
was  n't  a  man  among  them  but  was  tlie  worse  for  liquor. 

For  a  moment  Dan  took  it,  as  Mr.  Gabriel  had  ex- 
pected him  to  do,  as  a  joke,  and  went  to  trim  tlie  boat 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKELl.  IGl 

for  racing,  not  meaning  they  should  reach  town  first. 
Bat  I  —  I  saw  it  all. 

"  Dan  !  "  I  sung  out,  "  save  her !  She  's  not  coming 
back  !  They  '11  make  for  the  schooner  at  Bhick  Rocks  ! 
0  Dan,  he 's  taken  her  off !  " 

Now  one  whose  intelligence  has  never  been  trained, 
who  shells  his  five  wits  and  gets  rid  of  the  pods  as  best 
he  can,  may  n't  be  so  quick  as  another,  but  like  an  ani- 
mal, he  feels  long  before  he  sees ;  and  a  vague  sense  of 
this  had  been  upon  Dan  all  day.  Yet  now  he  stood 
thunderstruck;  and  the  thing  went  on  before  his  very 
eyes.  It  was  more  than  he  could  beheve  at  once,  —  and 
perhaps  his  first  feeling  was.  Why  should  he  hinder? 
And  then  the  flood  fell.  No  thought  of  his  loss,  — 
though  loss  it  wa'n't,  —  only  of  his  friend,  —  of  such 
stunning  treachery,  that,  if  the  sun  fell  hissing  into  tlie 
sea  at  noon,  it  would  have  mattered  less,  —  only  of  thai 
loss  that  tore  his  heart  out  with  it. 

"  Gabriel !  "  he  shouted,  —  "  Gabriel !  "  And  his 
voice  was  heart-rending.  I  know  that  Mr.  Gabriel  felt 
it,  for  he  never  turned  nor  stirred. 

Then  I  don't  know  what  came  over  Dan .-  a  blind  rage 
swelling  in  his  heart  seemed  to  make  him  larger  in  every 
limb ;  he  towered  like  a  flame.  He  sprang  to  the  tiller, 
but,  as  he  did  so,  saw  with  one  flash  of  his  eye  that  Mr. 
Gabriel  had  unshipped  the  rudder  and  thrown  it  away. 
He  seized  an  oar  to  steer  with  in  its  place ;  he  saw  that 
they,  in  their  ignorance  fast  edging  on  the  flats,  would 
shortly  be  aground ;  more  fisherman  than  sailor,  he 
knew  a  thousand  tricks  of  boat-craft  that  they  had  never 
heard  of.     We  flew,  we  flew  tlirouR'h  cloven  rida'es,  we 


102  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

became  a  wind  ourselves,  aud  M-hile  I  tell  it  Le  "was  be- 
side tlieni,  bad  gathered  himself  as  if  to  leap  the  chasm 
between  time  and  eteriiit}^,  and  had  landed  among  them 
in  the  Speed.  The  wherry  careened  with  the  shock  and 
the  water  poured  into  her,  aud  she  flung  headlong  and 
away  as  his  foot  spurned  her.  Heaven  knows  why  she 
did  n't  upset,  for  I  thought  of  nothing  but  the  scene  be- 
fore me  as  I  drifted  off  from  it.  I  shut  the  eyes  in  my 
soul  now,  that  I  may  n't  see  that  horrid  scuffle  twice. 
Mr.  Gabriel,  he  rose,  he  turned.  If  Dan  was  the  giant 
beside  him,  he  liimself  was  so  well-knit,  so  supple,  so 
adroit,  that  his  power  was  hke  the  blade  in  the  hand. 
Dan's  strength  was  lying  round  loose,  but  Mr.  Gabriel's 
was  trained,  it  hid  like  springs  of  steel  between  brain 
and  wrist,  and  from  him  the  clap  fell  with  the  bolt. 
And  then,  besides,  Dan  did  not  love  Faith,  and  he  did 
love  Gabriel.  Any  one  could  see  how  it  would  go.  I 
screamed.  I 'cried,  "Faith!  Faith  !"  And  some  natu- 
ral instinct  stirred  in  Faith's  heart,  for  she  clung  to  Mr. 
Gabriel's  arm  to  pull  him  off  from  Dan,  But  he  shook 
her  away  like  rain.  Then  such  a  mortal  weakness  took 
possession  of^e  that  1  saw  everything  black,' and  when 
it  was  clean  gone,  I  looked,  and  they  Averc  locked  in 
each  other's  arms,  fierce,  fierce  and  fell,  a  death-grij). 
Tliey  M'erc  staggering  to  the  boat's  edge :  only  this  I 
saw,  that  Mr.  Gabriel  was  inside :  suddenly  the  helms- 
man interposed  with  an  oar,  and  broke  their  grasps. 
Mr.  Ga])riel  reeled  away,  free,  for  a  second;  then,  the 
])assi()u,  tlie  fury,  the  hate  in  his  heart  feeding  his 
strength  as  youth  fed  tlie  locks  of  Samson,  he  darted, 
and  lifted   Dan  in  liis  two  arms   and   threw  him  like  a 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  IG^i 

stone  into  the  water.  Stiffened  to  ice,  I  waited  for  Dan 
to  rise;  the  other  craft,  the  Follow,  skimmed,  between 
us,  and  one  man  managing  her  that  she  should  n't  heel, 
the  rest  drew  Dan  in,  —  it 's  not  the  depth  of  two  foot 
there, — tacked  about,  and  after  a  minute  came  along- 
side, seized  our  painter,  and  dropped  him  gently  into  his 
own  boat.  Then  —  for  the  Speed  had  got  afloat  again 
—  the  thing  stretched  her  two  sails  wing  and  wing,  and 
went  plougliing  up  a  great  furrow  of  foam  before  her. 

I  sprang  to  Dan.  He  was  not  senseless,  but  in  a  kind 
of  stupor :  his  head  had  struck  the  fluke  of  a  half-sunk 
anchor  and  it  had  stunned  him,  but  as  the  wound  bled 
he  recovered  slowly  and  opened  his  eyes.  Ah,  what 
misery  was  in  them !  I  turned  to  the  fugitives.  They 
were  yet  in  sight,  Mr.  Gabriel  sitting  and  seeming  to 
adjure  Faith,  whose  skirts  he  held ;  but  she  stood,  and 
her  arms  were  outstretched,  and,  pale  as  a  foam-wreath 
her  face,  and  piercing 'as  a  night-wind  her  voice,  I  heard 
her  cry,  "  O  Georgie !  Georgie !  "  It  was  too  late  for 
her  to  cry  or  to  wring  her  hands  now.  She  should  have 
thought  of  that  before.  But  Mr.  Gabriel  rose  and  drew 
her  down,  and  hid  her  face  in  his  arms  and  .^nt  over  it ; 
and  so  they  fled  up  the  basin  and  round  the  long  line  of 
sand,  and  out  into  the  gloom  and  the  curdHng  mists. 

I  bound  up  Dan's  head.  I  could  n't  steer  with  an 
oar, — that  was  out  of  the  question,  —  but,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  could  row  tolerably;  so  I  got  down  the 
little  mast,  and  at  length  reached  the  wharves.  The 
town-lights  flickered  up  in  the  darkness  and  flickered 
back  from  the  black  rushing  river,  and  then  out  blazed 
the  great  mills ;  and  as  I  felt  along,  I  remembered  times 


164  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

when  Tve  'd  put  in  by  the  tender  sunset,  as  the  rose  faded 
out  of  the  water  and  the  orange  ebbed  down  the  west, 
and  one  by  one  the  sweet  evening-bells  chmied  forth,  so 
clear  and  high,  and  each  \\dth  a  different  tone,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  stars  must  flock,  tinkling,  into  the  sky. 
And  here  were  the  bells  ringing  out  again,  ringing  out 
of  the  gray  and  the  gloom,  dull  and  brazen,  as  if  they 
rang  from  some  cavern  of  shadows,  or  from  the  mouth 
of  hell,  —  but  no,  that  was  down  river !  Well,  I  made 
my  way,  and  the  men  on  the  landing  took  up  Dan,  and 
helped  him  in  and  got  him  on  my  httle  bed,  and  no 
sooner  there  than  the  heavy  sleep  with  which  he  had 
struggled  fell  on  him  like  lead. 

The  story  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth,  the  region  rang 
with  it ;  nobody  had  any  need  to  add  to  it,  or  to  make  it 
out  a  griffin  or  a  dragon  that  had  gripped  Faith  and  car- 
ried her  ofi"  in  his  talons.  But  everybody  declared  that 
those  boats  could  be  no  ship's  yawls  at  all,  but  must 
belong  to  parties  from  up  river  camping  out  on  the 
beach,  and  that  a  parcel  of  such  must  have  gone  saiUng 
with  some  of  the  hands  of  a  sand-droger :  there  was  one 
in  the  stream  now,  that  had  got  off  with  the  tide,  said  the 
Jerdan  boys  who  'd  been  down  there-  that  afternoon, 
though  there  was  no  such  name  as  "Flyaway"  on  her 
stern,  and  they  were  waiting  for  the  master  of  her, 
who  'd  gone  off  on  a  spree,  —  a  dare-devil  fellow,  that 
used  to  run  a  smuggler  between  Bordeaux  and  Bristol, 
as  they  'd  heard  say :  and  all  agreed  tliat  Mr.  Gabriel 
could  never  have  had  to  do  with  them  before  that  day, 
or  he  'd  have  known  what  a  place  a  sand-droger  would 
be  for  a  woman  ;     and   evervbody   made   excuses   for 


I 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  1G5 

Gabriel,  and  everybody  was  down  on  Faith.  So  there 
things  lay.  It  was  raw  and  chill  when  the  last  neighbor 
left  us,  the  sky  was  black  as  a  cloak,  not  a  star  to  be 
seen,  the  wind  had  edged  back  to  the  east  again  and 
came  in  wet  and  wild  from  the  sea  and  fringed  with  its 
thunder.  O,  poor  little  Faith,  what  a  night !  what  a 
night  for  her ! 

I  went  back  and  sat  down  by  Dan,  and  tried  to  keep 
his  head  cool.  Father  was  up  walking  the  kitchen  floor 
1  ill  late,  but  at  length  he  lay  down  across  the  foot  of 
mother's  bed,  as  if  expecting  to  be  called.  The  lights 
were  put  out,  there  was  no  noise  in  the  town,  every  one 
slept,  —  every  one,  except  they  watched  like  me,  on  that 
terrible  night.  No  noise  in  the  town,  did  I  say  ?  Ah, 
hut  there  was  !  It  came  creeping  round  the  corners,  it 
poured  rushing  up  the  street,  it  rose  from  everywhere,  — 
a  voice,  a  voice  of  woe,  the  heavy  booming  rote  of  the 
sea.  I  looked  out,  but  it  was  pitch-dark,  light  had  for- 
saken the  world,  we  were  beleaguered  by  blackness.  It 
grew  colder,  as  if  one  felt  a  fog  fall,  and  the  wind,  mount- 
ing slowly,  now  blew  a  gale.  It  eddied  in  clouds  of  dead 
and  whirling  leaves,  and  sent  big  torn  branches  flying 
aloft ;  it  took  the  house  by  the  four  corners  and  shook  it 
to  loosening  the  rafters,  and  I  felt  the  chair  rock  under 
me ;  it  rumbled  down  the  cliimney  as  if  it  would  tear  the 
life  out  of  us.  And  with  every  fresh  gust  of  the  gale  the 
rain  slapped  against  the  wall,  the  rain  that  fell  in  rivers, 
and  went  before  the  wind  in  sheets ;  and  sheltered  as  I 
was,  the  torrents  seemed  to  pour  over  me  like  cataracts, 
and  every  drop  pierced  me  like  a  needle,  and  I  put  my 
fingers  in  my  ears  to  shut  out  the  howl  of  the  wind  and 


1G6  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

the  waves.  I  could  n't  keep  my  thoughts  away  from 
Faith.  O,  poor  girl,  this  was  n't  what  she  'd  expected ! 
As  plainly  as  if  I  were  aboard-ship  I  felt  the  scene,  the 
hurrying  feet,  the  slippery  deck,  the  hoarse  cries,  the  creak- 
ing cordage,  the  heaving  and  plunging  and  straining, 
and  the  wide  Mdld  night.  And  I  was  beating  off  those 
dreadful  lines  with  them,  two  dreadful  hues  of  white  froth 
through  the  blackness,  two  lines  where  the  horns  of 
breakers  guard  the  harbor,  —  all  night  long  beating  off 
the  lee  with  them,  my  life  in  my  teeth,  and  chill,  blank, 
sliivering  horror  before  me.  My  whole  soul,  my  whole 
being,  was  fixed  in  that  one  spot,  that  little  vessel  driving 
on  the  rocks  :  it  seemed  as  if  a  madness  took  possession 
of  me,  I  reeled  as  I  walked,  I  forefelt  the  shivering  shock,. 
I  waited  till  she  should  strike.  And  then  I  thought  I 
lieard  cries,  and  I  ran  out  in  the  storm,  and  down  upon 
the  causey,  but  nothing  met  me  but  the  liollow  night  and 
the  roaring  sea  and  the  wind.  I  came  back,  and  hurried 
up  and  down  and  wnmg  my  hands  in  an  agony.  Pictures 
of  summer  nights  flashed  upon  me  and  faded,  —  where 
out  of  deep  blue  vaults  the  stars  hung  like  lamps,  great 
and  golden,  ■ —  or  where  soft  films  just  hazing  heaven 
caught  the  rays  till  all  above  gleamed  like  gauze  faintly 
powdered  and  spangled  with ,  silver,  —  or  heavy  with 
heat,  slipping  over  silent  waters,  through  scented  airs, 
under  purple  skies.  And  then  storms  rolled  in  and  rose 
before  my  eyes,  distinct  for  a  moment,  and  breaking, — 
such  as  I  'd  seen  tliem  from  the  Slioals  in  broad  dayliglit, 
when  tempestuous  columns  scooped  themselves  up  from 
the  green  gulfs  and  shattered  in  foam  on  the  shuddering 
rock,  —  ah  !  but  that  was  day,  aud  this  was  midnlglit  and 


I 


THE    SOUTH    BUEAKEK.  1C7 

murk !  —  storms  as  I  'd  heard  tell  of  them  off  Cape  Race, 
when  great  steamers  went  down  with  but  one  cry,  and 
the  waters  crowded  them  out  of  sight,  —  storms  where, 
out  of  the  wilderness  of  waves  that  far  and  wide  wasted 
white  around,  a  single  one  came  ploughing  on  straight  to 
the  mark,  gathering  its  grinding  masses  mast-high,  pois- 
ing, plunging,  and  swamping  and  crashing  them  into 
bottomless  pits  of  destruction,  —  storms  where  waves 
toss  and  breakers  gore,  where,  hanging  on  crests  that 
slip  from  under,  reefs  impale  the  hull,  and  drowning 
wretches  cling  to  the  crags  with  stiffening  hands,  and 
the  sleet  ices  them,  and  the  spray,  and  the  sea  lashes 
and  beats  them  with  great  strokes  and  sucks  them 
down  to  death;  and  right  in  the  midst  of  it  all  there 
burst  a  gun,  —  one,  another,  and  no  more.  "  0  Faith  ! 
Faith ! "  I  cried  again,  and  I  ran  and  hid  my  head  in 
the  bed. 

How  long  did  I  stay  so  ?  An  hour,  or  maybe  two. 
Dan  was  stiU  dead  with  sleep,  but  mother  had  no  more 
closed  an  eye  than  I.  There  was  no  rain  now,  the  wind 
had  fallen,  the  dark  had  lifted ;  I  looked  out  once  more, 
and  could  just  see  dimly  the  great  waters  swinging  in  the 
river  from  bank  to  bank.  I  drew  the  bucket  fresh,  and 
bound  the  cloths  cold  on  Dan's  head  again.  I  had  n't  a 
thought  in  my  bram,  and  I  feU  to  countmg  the  meshes  in 
the  net  that  hung  from  the  wall,  but  in  my  ears  there  was 
the  everlasting  rustle  of  the  sea  and  shore.  It  grew 
clearer,  —  it  got  to  being  a  universal  gray ;  there  'd  been 
no  sunrise,  but  it  was  day.  Dan  stirred,  —  he  turned 
over  heavily ;  then  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  looked 
about  him. 


1C8  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  I  've  had  such  a  fright  I  "  he  said.  "  Georgie  !  is 
that  you?" 

With  that  it  'Swept  over  him  afresh,  and  he  fell  back. 
In  a  moment  or  two  he  tried  to  rise,  but  he  was  weak  as 
a  child.  He  contrived  to  keep  on  his  elbow  a  moment, 
though,  and  to  give  a  look  out  of  the  window. 

"  It  came  on  to  blow,  did  n't  it  ?  "  he  asked  ;  but  there 
he  sank  down  again. 

"  I  can't  stay  so  !  "  he  murmured  soon.  "  I  can't 
stay  so  !  Here,  —  I  must  tell  you.  Georgie,  get  out 
the  spy -glass,  and  go  up  on  the  roof  and  look  over.  I  've 
had  a  dream,  I  tell  you !  I  've  had  a  dream.  Not  that 
either,  —  but  it 's  just  stamped  on  me  !  It  was  like  a 
storm,  —  and  I  dreamed  that  that  schooner  —  the  Fly- 
away —  had  parted.  And  the  half  of  her  's  crashed 
down  just  as  she  broke,  and  Faith  and  that  man  are  high 
up  on  the  bows  in  the  middle  of  the  South  Breaker ! 
Mnke  haste,  Georgie  !     Christ !  make  haste  !  " 

I  flew  to  the  drawers  and  opened  them,  and  began 
to  put  the  spy-glass  together.  Suddenly  he  cried  out 
again,  — 

"0,  liere's  where  the  fault  was!  What  right  had  I 
ever  to  nuirry  the  child,  not  loving  iier  ?  I  bound  her  ! 
I  crushed  her  !  I  stifled  her  !  If  she  lives,  it  is  my  sin ; 
if  she  dies,  I  murder  her  !  " 

He  hid  his  face,  as  he  spoke,  so  tliat  his  voice  came 
tliick,  and  great  choking  groans  rent  their  way  u})  from 
]iis  heart. 

All  at  once,  as  I  looked  up,  there  stood  mother,  in  her 
long  white  gown,  beside  the  bed,  and  bending  over  and 
taking  Dan's  hot  head  in  her  two  hands. 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  169 

"  Behold,  He  cometli  with  clouds  !  "  she  wliispered. 

It  always  did  seem  to  me  as  if  mother  had  the  imposi- 
tion of  hands,  —  perhaps  every  oiie  feels  just  so  about 
their  mother, — but  only  her  touch  always  lightens  an 
ache  for  me,  whether  it  's  in  the  heart  or  the  head. 

"  0  Aunt  Rhody,"  said  Dan,  looking  up  in  her  face 
with  his  distracted  eyes,  "  can't  you  help  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence 
Cometh  my  help,"  said  mother. 

"  There 's  no  help  there  !  "  called  Dan.  "  There 's  no 
God  there  !  He  would  n't  have  let  a  little  child  run  into 
her  damnation  !  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  Dan  !  "  murmured  mother.  "  Faith 
never  can  have  been  at  sea  in  such  a  night  as  tliis,  and 
not  have  felt  God's  hand  snatching  her  out  of  sin.  If 
she  Kves,  she  's  a  changed  woman ;  and  if  she  dies,  her 
soul  is  whitened  and  fit  to  walk  with  saints.  Through 
much  tribulation." 

"Yes,  yes,"  muttered  father,  in  the  room  beyond, 
spitting  on  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  going  to  take  hold 
of  the  truth  by  the  handle,  —  "  it 's  best  to  clean  up  a 
thing  with  the  first  spot,  and  not  wait  for  it  to  get  all 
rusty  with  crime." 

"And  he!"  said  Dan,  —  "and  he, — that  man, — 
Gabriel ! " 

"  Between  the  saddle  and  the  ground 
If  mercy  's  asked,  mercy  's  found," 
said  I. 

"  Are  you  there  yet,  Georgie  ?  "  he  cried,  turning  to 
me.  "  Here  !  I  '11  go  myself !  "  But  he  only  stumbled 
and  fell  on  the  bed  ajjain. 


170  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  In  all  the  teiTor  and  the  tempest  of  these  long 
hours,  —  for  there  's  been  a  fearful  stonn,  though  you 
have  n't  felt  it/'  said  mother,  —  "  in  all  that,  Mr.  Ga- 
briel can't  have  slept.  But  at  first  it  must  have  been 
that  great  dread  appalled  him,  and  he  may  have  been 
beset  with  sorrow.  He  'd  brought  her  to  this.  But  at 
last,  for  he  's  no  coward,  he  has  looked  death  in  the  face 
and  not  flinched;  and  the  danger,  and  the  grandeur 
there  is  in  despair,  have  lifted  his  spirit  to  great  heiglits, 
—  heights  found  now  in  an  hour,  but  which  in  a  whole 
life  long  he  never  would  have  gained,  —  heights  from 
which  he  has  seen  the  light  of  God's  face  and  been  trans- 
figured in  it,  —  heiglits  where  the  soul  dilates  to  a  stature 
it  can  never  lose.  O  Dan,  there  's  a  moment,  a  moment 
wlien  the  dross  strikes  off,  and  the  impurities,  and  the 
grain  sets,  and  there  comes  out  the  great  white  diamond  ! 
For  by  gi-ace  are  ye  saved,  through  faith,  and  that  not  of 
yourselves,  it  is  the  gift  of  God,  —  of  Him  that  maketh 
tlie  seven  stars  and  Orion,  and  turnetli  the  shadow  of 
death  into  the  morning.  0,  I  icill  believe  that  Mr. 
Gabriel  hadn't  any  need  to  grope  as  we  do,  but  that  sud- 
denly he  saw  the  Heavenly  Arm  and  clung  to  it,  and  the 
grasp  closed  round  him,  and  death  and  hell  can  have  no 
power  over  him  now  !  Dan,  poor  boy,  is  it  better  to  lie 
in  tlie  earth  with  the  ore  than  to  be  forged  in  the  furnace 
and  beaten  to  a  bhide  fit  for  the  hands  of  archangels  ?  " 

And  mother  stopped,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

I  'd  been  wiping  and  screwing  the  glass,  and  I  'd 
waited  a  breath,  for  mother  always  talked  so  like  a 
j)rcacl»er ;  but  when  she  'd  finished,  after  a  second  or  two 
Dan  looked  up,  and  said,  as  if  he  'd  just  come  in,  —^ 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  17 i 

"Aunt  Rliody,  how  come  you  out  of  bed  ?  " 
And  then  mother,  she  got  upon  the  bed,  and  she  took 
Dan's  head  on  her  breast  and  fell  to  stroking  his  brows, 
laying  her  cool  palms  on  his  temples  and  on  his  eyehds, 
as  once  I  'd  have  given  my  ears  to  do,  —  and  I  slipped 
out  of  the  room. 

O,  I  hated  to  go  up  those  stairs,  to  mount  that  ladder, 
to  open  the  scuttle  !  And  once  there,  I  waited  and 
waited  before  I  dared  to  look.  The  night  had  unnerved 
me.  At  length  I  fixed  the  glass.  I  swept  the  broad 
swollen  stream,  to  the  yellowing  woods,  and  over  the 
meadows,  where  a  pale  transient  beam  crept  under  and 
pried  up  the  haycocks,  —  the  smoke  that  began  to  curl 
from  the  chimneys  and  fall  as  soon,  —  the  mists  blowing 
off  from  Indian  Hill,  but  brooding  blue  and  dense  down 
the  turnpike,  and  burying  the  red  «park  of  the  moon, 
that  smot  hered  like  a  half-dead  coal  in  her  ashes,  —  any- 
where, anywhere  but  that  spot !  I  don't  know  why  it 
was,  but  I  could  n't  level  the  glass  there,  —  my  arm 
would  fall,  my  eye  haze.  Finally  I  brought  it  round 
nearer  and  tried  again.  Everywhere,  as  far  as  your  eye 
could  reach,  the  sea  was  yeasty  and  wliite  with  froth, 
and  great  streaks  of  it  were  setting  up  the  iuky  river, 
and  against  it  there  were  the  twin  hghthouses  quivering 
their  little  yellow  rays  as  if  to  mock  the  dawn,  and  far 
out  on  the  edge  of  day  the  great  light  at  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  blinked  and  blinked,  crimson  and  gold,  fainter 
and  fainter,  and  lost  at  last.  It  was  no  use,  I  didn't 
dare  point  it,  my  hand  trembled  so  I  could  see  nothing 
plain,  when  suddenly  an  enguie  went  thundering  over 
the   bridge   and  startled  me  into   stiJlneGs.     The   tube 


17'^  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

sliiiig  in  my  hold  and  steadied  against  the  chimney,  and 
there  —  AVTiat  was  it  in  the  field  ?  what  ghastly  pic- 
ture? 

The  glass  crashed  from  my  hand,  and  I  staggered 
shrieking  down  the  ladder. 

The  sound  was  n't  well  through  my  lips,  when  the 
door  slammed,  and  Dan  had  darted  out  of  the  house  and 
to  the  shore.  I  after  him.  There  was  a  knot  sitting 
and  standing  round  there  in  the  gray,  -shivering,  with 
their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  their  pipes  set  in  their 
teeth ;  but  the  gloom  was  on  them  as  well,  and  the  pipes 
went  out  betw^eeu  the  pufTs. 

"  Where  's  Dennis's  boat  ?  "  Dan  demanded,  as  he 
.strode. 

"  The  six-oar  's  all  the  one  not  —  " 

"  The  six-oar  I  want.     Who  goes  with  me  ?  " 

There  was  n't  a  soul  in  the  ward  but  would  have  fol- 
lowed Dan's  lead  to  the  end  of  the  world  and  jumped 
off ;  and  before  I  could  tell  their  names  there  were  three 
men  on  the  thwart,  six  oars  in  the  air,  Dan  stood  in  the 
bows,  a  word  from  him,  and  they  shot  away. 

I  watched  while  I  could  see,  and  then  in  and  up  to  the 
attic,  forgetting  to  put  mother  in  her  bed,  forgetting  all 
tilings  but  the  one.  And  there  lay  the  glass  broken. 
I  sat  awhile  with  the  pieces  in  my  hand,  as  if  I  'd  lost 
a  kiugdom ;  then  down,  and  mechanically  put  things  to 
rights,  and  made  mother  comfortable,  —  and  she  's  never 
stood  on  her  feet  from  that  day  to  this.  At  last  I  seated 
myself  before  the  fire,  and  stared  into  it  to  blinding. 

"  Won't  some  one  lend  you  a  glass,  Gcorgie  F  "  said 
mother. 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  17-3 

"Of  course  they  will!"  I  cried,  —  for,  you  see,  I 
hadn't  a  wit  of  my  own, — and  I  ran  out. 

There  's  a  glass  beliind  every  door  in  the  street,  you 
should  know,  and  there  's  no  day  in  the  year  that  you  '11 
go  by  and  not  see  one  stretching  from  some  roof  where 
tlie  heart  of  the  house  is  out  on  the  sea.  O,  sometimes 
I  tliink  all  the  romance  of  the  town  is  clustered  down 
here  on  the  Elats  and  written  in  pale  cheeks  and  starting 
eyes!  But  what 's  the  use?  After  one  winter,  one,  I 
gave  mine  away,  and  never  got  another.  It 's  just  an 
emblem  of  despair.  Look,  and  look  again,  and  look  till 
your  soul  sinks,  and  the  thing  you  want  never  crosses  it ; 
but  you  're  down  in  the  kitchen  stirring  a  porridge,  or 
you  're  off  at  a  neighbor's  asking  the  news,  and  some- 
body shouts  at  you  round  the  comer,  and  there,  black 
and  dirty  and  dearer  than  gold,  she  Ees  between  the 
piers. 

All  the  world  was  up  on  their  house-tops  spymg,  that 
morning,  but  there  was  nobody  would  keep  their  glass 
while  I  had  none ;  so  I  went  back  armed,  and  part  of  it 
all  I  saw,  and  part  of  it  father  told  me. 

I  waited  till  I  thought  they  were  'most  across,  and 
then  I  rubbed  the  lens.  At  first  I  saw  nothing,  and  I 
began  to  quake  with  a  greater  fear  than  any  that  had  yet 
taken  root  in  me.  But  with  the  next  moment  there  they 
were,  pulling  close  up.  I  shut  my  eyes  for  a  flash  with 
some  kind  of  a  prayer  that  was  most  Hke  an  imprecation, 
and  when  I  looked  again  they  had  dashed  over  and 
dashed  over,  taking  the  rise  of  the  long  roll,  and  were  in 
the  midst  of  the  South  Breaker.  O  God !  that  terrible 
South  Breaker !     The  oars  bent  lithe  as  willow-switches. 


174  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

a  moment  they  skimmed  on  the  caps,  a  moment  were  hid 
in  the  snow  of  the  spray.  Dan,  red-shirted,  still  stood 
there,  his  whole  soul*on  the  aim  before  him,  like  that  of 
some  leaper  flyuig  through  the  air;  he  swayed  to  the 
stroke,  he  bowed,  he  rose,  perfectly  balanced,  and  flexile 
as  the  wave.  The  boat  behaved  beneath  their  hands  like 
a  hve  creature  :  she  bounded  so  that  you  almost  saw  the 
light  under  her ;  her  whole  stem  Ufted  itself  slowly  out 
of  the  water,  caught  the  back  of  a  roller  and  rode  over 
upon  the  next;  the  very  things  that  came  rushing  in 
with  their  white  rage  to  devour  her  bent  their  necks  and 
bore  her  up  like  a  bubble.  Constantly  she  drew  nearer 
that  dark  and  shattered  heap  up  to  which  the  fierce  surf 
raced,  and  over  which  it  leaped.  And  there  all  the  time, 
all  the  time,  they  had  been  clinging,  far  out  on  the  bow- 
sprit, those  two  figures,  her  arms  close-knit  about  him, 
he  clasping  her  with  one,  the  other  twisted  in  the  hawser 
whose  harsh  thrilling  must  have  filled  their  ears  like  an 
organ-note  as  it  swung  them  to  and  fro,  —  clinging  to  life, 
—  clinging  to  each  otlier  more  than  to  life.  The  wreck 
scarcely  heaved  with  the  stoutest  blow  of  the  tremendous 
surge;  here  and  there,  only,  a  plank  shivered  off  and 
was  bowled  on  and  thrown  high  upon  the  beach  beside 
fragments  of  beams  broken  and  bruised  to  a  powder;  it 
seemed  to  be  as  firmly  planted  there  as  the  breaker  itself. 
Great  feathers  of  foam  flew  across  it,  great  waves  shook 
themselves  thin  around  it  and  veiled  it  in  slirouds,  and 
with  tlieir  every  })reath  the  smothering  sheets  daslied 
over  them, — the  two.  And  constantly  the  boat  drew 
nearer,  as  I  said;  they  were  almost  witliiii  liail ;  Dan 
saw  her  hair  streaming  on  tlu-  ^iiid;  ho  waited  only  for 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  175 

tlie  long  wave.  On  it  came,  that  long  wave,  —  oli !  I 
can  see  it  now !  —  plunging  and  rearing  and  swelling,  a 
monstrous  billow,  sweeping  and  swooping  and  rocking 
in.  Its  hollows  gaped  with  slippery  darkness,  it  towered 
and  sent  the  scuds  before  its  trembling  crest,  breaking 
with  a  mighty  rainbow  as  the  sun  burst  forth,  it  fell  in  a 
white  blindness  everywhere,  rushed  seethuig  up  the  sand, 
—  and  the  bowsprit  was  bare  !  — 

When  father  came  home,  the  rack  had  driven  down 
the  harbor  and  left  clear  sky;  it  was  near  nightfall; 
they  'd  been  searcliing  the  shore  all  day,  —  to  no  purpose. 
But  that  rainbow,  — I  always  took  it  for  a  sign.  Father 
was  worn  out,  yet  he  sat  in  the  chimney-side,  cutting  off 
great  quids  and  chewing  and  thinking  and  sigliing.  At 
last  he  went  and  wound  iip  the  clock,  —  it  was  the  stroke 
of  twelve,  —  and  then  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  — 

"  Dan  sent  you  tliis,  Georgie.  He  hailed  a  pilot-boat, 
and 's  gone  to  the  Cape  to  join  the  fall  fleet  to  the  fish- 
'ries.     And  he  sent  you  this." 

It  was  just  a  great  hand-grip  to  make  your  nails  pur- 
ple, but  there  was  heart's-blood  in  it.  See,  there  's  the 
mark  to-day. 

So  there  was  Dan  off  in  the  Bay  of  Chaleur.  'T  was 
the  best  place  for  Inm.  And  I  went  about  my  work  once 
more.  There  was  a  great  gap  in  my  life,  but  I  tried  not 
to  look  at  it.  I  durst  n't  think  of  Dan,  and  I  wouldn't 
think  of  them,  —  the  two.  Always  in  such  times  it 's  as 
if  a  breath  had  come  and  blown  across  the  pool  and  you 
could  see  down  its  dark  depths  and  into  the  very  bottom, 
but  time  scums  it  all  over  again.  And  I  tell  you  it  's 
best  to  look  trouble  in  the  face  ;  if  you  don't  you  '11  have 


176  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

more  of  it.  So  I  got  a  lot  of  slioes  to  bind,  and  what 
part  of  my  spare  time  I  wa'  n't  at  my  books  the  needle 
flew.  But  I  turned  no  more  to  tlie  past  than  I  could 
help,  and  the  future  trembled  too  much  to  be  seen. 

Well,  the  two  months  dragged  away,  it  got  to  be 
Thanksgiving  week,  and  at  length  the  fleet  was  due.  I 
mind  me  I  made  a  great  baking  that  w^eek ;  and  I  put 
brandy  into  the  mince  for  once,  instead  of  vinegar  and 
dried-apple  juice,  —  and  there  were  the  fowls  stuffed  and 
trussed  on  the  shelf,  —  and  the  pumpkin-pies  like  slices 
of  split  gold,  —  and  the  cranberry -tarts,  plats  of  crimson 
and  puff's  of  snow,  —  and  I  was  brewing  in  my  mind  a 
right-royal  red  Indian  pudding  to  come  out  of  the  oven 
smoking  hot  and  be  soused  with  thick  clots  of  yellow 
cream,  —  when  one  of  the  boys  ran  in  and  told  us  the 
fleet  'd  got  back,  but  no  Dan  with  it,  —  he  'd  changocl 
over  to  a  fore-and-after,  and  wouldn't  be  home  at  all, 
but  was  to  stay  down  m  the  Georges  all  winter,  and  he  'd 
sent  us  word.  Well,  the  baking  went  to  the  dogs,  or 
the  Thanksgiving  beggars,  which  is  the  same  thing. 

Then  days  went  by,  as  days  will,  and  it  was  well  into 
the  New  Year.  I  used  to  sit  there  at  the  window,  read- 
ing, —  but  the  lines  would  run  together,  and  I  'd  forget 
what 't  was  all  about,  and  gather  no  sense,  and  the  image 
of  the  little  fore-and-after,  tlie  Feather,  raked  in  be- 
tween the  leaves,  and  at  last!  had  to  put  all  that  aside ; 
and  then  I  sat  stitching,  stitching,  but  got  into  a  sad 
]ial)it  of  looking  up  and  lookmg  out  each  time  I  drew  <he 
thread.  I  felt  it  was  a  shame  of  mc  to  be  so  glum,  and 
mother  missed  my  voice;  but  I  could  no  more  talk  than 
I  could  have  given  conundrums  to  King  Solomon,  and 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  177 

—  0,  I  used  to  long  so  for  just  a  word 
from  Dau ! 

We  'd  bad  dry  fine  weeks  all  along,  aud  fatlier  said 
he  'd  known  we  should  have  just  such  a  season,  because 
the  goose's  breast-bone  was  so  white ;  but  St.  Valentine's 
day  the  weather  broke,  broke  in  a  chain  of  storms  that 
the  September  gale  was  a  whisper  to.  Ah,  it  was  a 
dreadful  winter,  that !  You  've  surely  heard  of  it.  It 
made  forty  widows  in  one  town.  Of  the  dead  that  were 
found  on  Prince  Edward's  Island's  shores  there  were  four 
corpses  in  the  next  house  yonder,  and  two  in  the  one 
behind.  And  what  waiting  and  watching  aud  cruel  pangs 
of  suspense  for  them  that  could  n't  have  even  the  peace 
of  certainty  !     And  I  was  one  of  those. 

The  days  crept  on,  I  say,  and  got  bright  again;  no 
June  days  ever  stretched  themselves  to  half  such  length ; 
there  was  perfect  stillness  in  the  house,  —  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  counted  every  tick  of  the  clock.  In  the  even- 
ings the  neighbors  used  to  drop  in  and  sit  mumbling  over 
their  fearful  memories  till  the  flesh  crawled  on  my  bones. 
Father,  then,  he  wanted  cheer,  and  he  'd  get  rae  to  sing- 
ing "  Caller  Herrin'."  Once,  I  'd  sung  the  first  part, 
but  as  I  reached  the  lines, — 

"  When  ye  were  sleepin'  on  your  pillows. 
Dreamt  ye  aught  o'  our  puir  fellows 
Darkhn'  as  they  face  the  billows, 
A'  to  fill  our  woven  wiDows,"  — 

as  I  reached  those  lines,  my  voice  trembled  so  's  to  shake 
the  tears  out  of  my  eyes,  and  Jim  Jerdan  took  it  up 
himself  and  sung  it  through  for  me  to  words  of  his  own 
8*  L 


178  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

invention,  lie  was  always  a  kindly  fellow,  and  lie  knew 
a  little  how  the  land  lay  between  me  and  Dan. 

"When  I  was  down  in  the  Georges/'  said  Jim  Jer- 
dan  — 

"  You  ?    When  was  you  down  there  ?  "  asked  father, 

"  Well,  —  once  I  was.     There  's  worse  places." 

"  Can't  tell  me  nothing  about  the  Georges,"  said  fa- 
ther. '"T  a'n't  the  rivers  of  Damascus  exactly,  but 
't  a'n't  the  Marlstrom  neither." 

"  Ever  ben  there,  Cap'n  ?  " 

"  A  few.  Spent  more  nights  under  cover  roundabouts 
than  Georgie  '11  have  white  hairs  in  her  head,  —  for  all 
she  's  washing  the  color  out  of  her  eyes  now." 

You  see,  father  knew  I  set  by  my  hair,  —  for  in  those 
days  I  rolled  it  thick  as  a  cable,  almost  as  long,  black  as 
that  cat's  back,  —  and  he  thought  he  'd  touch  me  up  a 
little.  ■ 

"  Wash  the  red  from  her  cheek  and  the  light  from  her 
look,  and  she  '11  still  have  the  queen's  own  tread,"  said 
Jim. 

"  If  Loisy  Currier  'd  lieern  that,  you  'd  wish  your 
cake  was  dough,"  says  father. 

"I  '11  resk  it,"  says  Jim.  "Loisy  knows  who  's  sec- 
ond choice,  as  well  as  if  you  told  her." 

"But  what  about  the  Georges,  Jim?"  I  asked;  for 
though  I  hated  to  hear,  I  could  listen  to  nothing  else. 

"  Georges  ?    0,  not  much !    Just  like  any  other  place." 

"  But  what  do  you  do  down  there  ?  " 

"  Do  ?     Wliy,  we  fish,  —  in  the  ])leasant  weather." 

"  And  when  it 's  not  pleasant  ?  " 

"  O,  tlicn  we  in;ike  lliini^s  taul,  lioist  fores'l,  clap  llio 


J 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  179 

helium  into  the  lee  becket,  and  go  below  and  amuse 
ourselves." 

"  How  ?  "  I  asked,  as  if  I  had  n't  heard  it  all  a  hun- 
dred times. 

"  One  way  'n'  another.  Pipes,  and  mugs,  and  poker, 
if  it  a'n't  too  rough;  and  if  it  is,  we  just  bunk  and 
snooze  till  it  gets  smooth." 

"  Why,  Jim,  —  how  do  you  know  when  that  is  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  can  jedge,  —  'f  the  pipe  falls  out  of  your 
pocket  and  don't  light  on  the  ceiling." 

"  And  who  's  on  deck  ?  " 

"  There  's  no  one  on  deck.  There  's  no  danger,  no 
trouble,  no  nothing.  Can't  drive  ashore,  if  you  was  to 
try :  hundred  miles  off,  in  the  first  place.  Hatches  are 
closed,  she  's  light  as  a  cork,  rolls  over  and  over  just 
like  any  other  log  in  the  water,  and  there  can't  a  drop 
get  into  her,  if  she  turns  bottom-side  up." 

"  But  she  never  can  right  herself !  " 

"  Can't  she  ?  You  just  try  her.  Why,  I  've  known 
'em  to  keel  over  and  rake  bottom  and  bring  up  the  weed 
on  the  topmast.  I  tell  you  now  !  there  was  one  time  we 
knowed  she  'd  turned  a  somerset,  pretty  well.  Why  ? 
Because,  when  it  cleared  and  we  come  up,  there  was  her 
two  masts  broke  short  off !  " 

And  Jim  went  home  thinking  he  'd  given  me  a  night's 
sleep.  But  it  was  cold  comfort ;  the  Georges  seemed  to 
me  a  worse  place  than  the  Hellgate.  And  mother  she 
kept  murmuring,  "He  layeth  the  beams  of  His  cham- 
bers in  the  waters.  His  pavilion  round  about  Him  is 
dark  waters  and  thick  clouds  of  the  skies."  And  I 
knew  by  that  she  thought  it  pretty  bad. 


180  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

So  the  days  •\veut  iii  cloud  and  wind.  The  owners  of 
the  Eeather  'd  been  looking  for  her  a  month  and  more, 
and  there  were  strange  kind  of  rumors  afloat ;  and  no- 
body mentioned  Dan's  name,  unless  they  tripped.  I 
went  glowering  like  a  wild  thing.  I  knew  I  'd  never 
see  Dan  now  nor  hear  his  voice  again,  but  I  hated  the 
Lord  that  had  done  it,  and  I  made  my  heart  like  the 
nether  millstone.  I  used  to  try  and  get  out  of  folks's 
sight ;  and  roaming  about  the  back  streets  one  day,  as 
the  snow  went  off,  I  stumbled  on  Miss  Catharine.  "  Old 
Miss  Catharine  "  everybody  called  her,  though  she  was 
but  a  pauper,  and  had  black  blood  in  her  veins.  Eighty 
years  had  withered  her,  —  a  little  woman  at  best,  and 
now  bent  so  that  her  head  and  shoulders  hung  forward 
and  she  could  n't  lift  them,  and  she  never  saw  the  sky. 
Her  face  to  the  ground  as  no  beast's  face  is  turned  even, 
she  walked  with  a  cane,  and  fixing  it  every  few  steps  she 
woidd  throw  herself  back,  and  so  get  a  glimpse  of  her 
way  and  go  on.  I  looked  after  lier,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  weeks  my  heart  ached  for  somebody  beside  my- 
self. The  next  day  mother  sent  me  with  a  dish  to  Miss 
Catharine's  room,  and  I  went  in  and  sat  down.  I  did  n't 
like  her  at  first ;  she  'd  got  a  way  of  lookmg  sidelong 
that  gave  her  an  evil  air;  but  soon  she  tilted  herself 
backward,  and  I  saw  her  face,  —  such  a  happy  one ! 

"  Wliat  's  the  matter  of  ye,  honey  ?  "  said  she.  "  D' 
ye  read  your  Bible  ?  " 

Read  my  Bible ! 

"  Is  that  what  makes  you  happy.  Miss  Catharine  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"Well,  I  can't  read  much  myself,  —  I  don't  know  the 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  181 

letters,"  says  she ;  "  but  I  'vc  got  the  blessed  promises 
in  my  heart." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  read  to  you  ?  " 
"  No,  not  to-day.     Next  time  you  come,  maybe." 
So  I  sat  awhile  and  listened  to  her  little  humming 
voice,  and  we  fell  to  talking  about  mother's  ailments, 
and  she  said  how  fine  it  would  be,  if  we  could  only 
afford  to  take  mother  to  Bethesda. 
'    "  There  's  no  angel  there  now,"  said  I. 

"  I  know  it,  dear,  —  but  then'^ —  there  might  be,  you 
know.     At  any  rate,  there  's  always  the  living  waters 
rnnning  to  make  us  whole :  I  often  think  of  that." 
"  And  what  else  do  you  think  of.  Miss  Catharine  ?  " 
"Me?"  said  she.     "0,  I  ha'n't  got  no  husband  nor 
no  child  to  think  about  and  hope  for,  and  so  I  think  of 
myself,  and  what  I  should  like,  honey.     And  sometimes 
I  remember  them  varses,  —  here  !  you  read  'em  now,  — 
Luke  xiii.  11." 
So  I  read :  — 

"  And,  behold,  there  was  a  woman  which  had  a  spirit 
of  infirmity  eighteen  years,  and  was  bowed  together,  and 
could  in  no  wise  hft  up  herself.  And  when  Jesus  saw 
her,  he  called  her  to  him,  and  said  unto  her,  '  Woman, 
thou  art  loosed  from  thine  infirmity.'  And  he  laid  his 
hands  on  her :  and  immediately  she  was  made  straight, 
and  glorified  God."     ' 

"Ay,  honey,  I  see  that  all  as  if  it  was  me.  And  I 
think,  as  1  'm  setting  here.  What  if  the  latch  should  lift, 
and  the  gracious  stranger  should  come  in,  his  gown 
a-sweepin'  behind  him  and  a-sweet'nin'  the  air,  and  he 
should  look  down  on  me  with  his  heavenly  eyes,  and  he 


182  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

should  smile,  and  lay  his  hands  on  my  head,  warm,  — 
and  I  say  to  myself,  '  Lord,  I  am  not  worthy,'  —  and  he 
says,  '  Miss  Catharine,  thou  art  loosed  from  thine  infirm- 
ity ! '  And  the  latch  hfts  as  I  think,  and  I  wait,  —  but 
it 's  not  Him.'' 

Well,  when  I  went  out  of  that  place  I  wasn't  the 
same  girl  that  had  gone  in.  My  will  gave  way  ;  I  came 
home  and  took  up  my  burden  and  was  in  peace.  Still  I 
could  n't  help  my  thoughts,  —  and  they  ran  perpetually 
to  the  sea.  I  had  n't  need  to  go  up  on  the  house-tops, 
for  I  did  n't  shut  mj  eyes  but  there  it  stretclied  before 
me.  I  stirred  about  the  rooms  and  tried  to  make  them 
glad  once  more ;  but  I  was  thin  and  blanched  as  if  I  'd 
been  rising  from  a  fever.  Father  said  it  was  the  salt  air 
I  wanted ;  and  one  day  he  was .  going  out  for  frost-fish, 
and  he  took  me  with  him,  and  left  me  and  my  basket  on 
the  sands  while  he  was  away.  It  was  this  side  of  the 
South  Breaker  that  he  put  me  out,  but  I  walked  there ; 
and  where  the  surf  was  breaking  in  the  light,  I  went  and 
sat  down  and  looked  over  it.     I  could  do  that  now. 

There  was  the  Cape  sparkling  miles  and  miles  across 
the  way,  unconcerned  that  he  whose  firm  foot  had  rung 
last  Oil  its  flints  should  ring  there  no  more ;  there  M^as 
tlic  beautiful  town  lying  large  and  warm  along  the  river ; 
here  gay  craft  went  darting  about  like  gulls,  and  there 
up  the  channel  sped  a  larger  one,  with  all  her  canvas 
flushing  in  the  sun,  and  shivering  a  little  spritsail  in  the 
siiadow,  as  she  went;  and  fawning  in  upon  my  feet  came 
the  foam  from  the  South  Breaker,  that  still  perhaps  cra- 
dled Faith  and  Gabriel.  But  as  I  looked,  my  eye  fell, 
a;!d  there  eanie  the  sea-scenes  again,  —  other  scenes  tlian 


THE    SOUTH    BREAKER.  183 

this,  coves  and  corners  of  other  coasts,  sky-girt  regions 
of  other  waters.  The  air  was  soft,  that  April  day,  and  I 
thought  of  the  summer  cahns ;  and  with  that  rose  long 
sheets  of  stillness,  far  out  from  any  strand,  purple  be- 
neath the  noon;  fields  shpping  close  in-shore,  emerald- 
backed  and  scaled  with  sunshine ;  long  sleepy  swells  that 
hid  the  light  in  their  hollows,  and  came  creaming  along 
the  cliifs.  And  if  upon  these  broke  suddenly  a  wild 
glimpse  of  some  storm  careering  over  a  merciless  mid- 
ocean,  of  a  dear  dead  face  tossing  up  on  the  surge  and 
snatched  back  again  into  the  depths,  of  mad  wastes  rush- 
ing to  tear  themselves  to  fleece  above  clear  shallows  and 
turbid  sand-bars, — they  melted  and  were  lost  in  peace- 
ful glimmers  of  the  moon  on  distant  flying  foam-wreaths, 
in  solemn  midnight  tides  chanting  in  under  hushed  heav- 
ens, in  twilight  stretches  kissing  twihght  slopes,  in  rosy 
mornmg  waves  flocking  up  the  singing  shores.  And  sit- 
t"mg  so,  with  my  lids  still  fallen,  I  heard  a  quick  step  on 
the  beach,  and  a  voice  that  said,  "  Georgie  !  "  And  I 
looked,  and  a  figure,  red-shirted,  towered  beside  me,  and 
a  face,  brown  and  bearded  and  tender,  bent  above  me. 
0,  it  was  Dan ! 


THE    SNOW-STORM. 


BY  JOHN  WILSON. 


N  Slimmer  there  is  beauty  in  tlie  wildest  moors 
of  Scotland,  and  the  wa3^faring  man  who  sits 
down  for  an  hour's  rest  beside  some  little 
spring  that  flows  unheard  through  the  brightened  moss 
and  water-cresses  feels  his  weary  heart  revived  by  the 
silent,  serene,  and  solitary  prospect.  On  every  side  sweet 
sunny  spots  of  verdure  smile  towards  him  from  among 
the  melancholy  heather,  —  unexpectedly  in  the  solitude 
a  stray  sheep,  it  may  be  with  its  lamb,  starts  half  alarmed 
at  his  motionless  figure,  —  insects  large,  bright,  and  beau- 
tiful-come  careering  by  him  through  the  desert  air, — 
nor  does  the  Wild  want  its  own  songsters,  the  gray  lin- 
net, fond  of  the  blooming  furze,  and  now  and  then  the 
lark  mounting  up  to  heaven  above  the  summits  of  the 
green  pastoral  hills.  Duriug  such  a  sunshiny  hour,  the 
lonely  cottage  on  the  waste  seems  to  stand  in  a  paradise  ; 
and  as  lie  rises  to  pursue  his  journey,  the  traveller  looks 
back  and  blesses  it  with  a  mingled  emotion  of  delight 
and  envy.  There,  thinks  he,  abide  the  children  of  Inno- 
cence and  Coiitentnient,  the  two  most  benign  spirits  that 
watch  over  human  hfc. 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  185 

Euv  other  thoughts  arise  in  the  ramd  of  liim  who  may 
chance  to  journey  througli  the  same  scene  in  the  desola- 
tion of  winter.  The  cold  bleak  sky  girdles  the  moor  as 
with  a  belt  of  ice,  —  life  is  frozen  in  air  and  on  earth. 
The  silence  is  not  of  repose,  but  extinction ;  and  should 
a  solitary  human  dwelling  catch  his  eye  half  buried  in  the 
snow,  he  is  sad  for  the  sake  of  them  wbose  destiny  it  is 
to  abide  far  from  the  cheerful  haunts  of  men,  shrouded 
up  in  melancholy,  by  poverty  held  in  thrall,  or  pining 
away  in  unvisited  and  untended  disease. 

But, -in  good  truth,  the  heart  of  human  life  is  but  im- 
perfectly discovered  from  its  countenance ;  and  before 
we  can  know  what  the  summer  or  what  the  winter 
yields  for  enjoyment  or  trial  to  our  country's  peasantry, 
we  must  have  conversed  with  them  in  their  fields  and  by 
their  firesides,  and  made  ourselves  acquainted  with  the 
powerful  ministry  of  the  seasons,  not  over  those  objects 
alone  that  feed  the  eye  and  the  imagination,  but  over  all 
the  incidents,  occupations,  and  events  that  modify  or 
constitute  the  existence  of  the  poor. 

I  have  a  short  and  simple  story  to  tell  of  the  winter 
life  of  the  moorland  cottager,  —  a  story  but  of  one  even- 
ing,—  with  few  events  and  no  signal  catastrophe,  — but 
which  may  haply  please  those  hearts  whose  delight  it  is 
to  think  on  the  humble  under-plots  that  are  carrying  on 
in  the  great  Drama  of  Life. 

Two  cottagers,  husband  and  wife,  were  sitting  by  their 
cheerfid  peat-fire  one  winter  evening,  in  a  small  lonely 
hut  on  the  edge  of  a  wide  moor,  at  some  tniiles'  distance 
from  any  other  habitation.  There  had  been,  at  one  time, 
several  huts  of  the  same  kind  erected  close  together,  and 


186  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

inliabited  by  families  of  the  poorest  class  of  day -laborers, 
wlio  found  work  among  the  distant  farms,  and  at  night 
returned  to  dwellings  which  were  rent-free,  with  their 
little  garden  won  from  the  waste.  But  one  family  after 
another  had  dwindled  away,  and  the  turf-bnilt  huts  had 
all  fallen  into  ruins,  except  one  that  had  always  stood  in 
the  centre  of  this  little  solitary  village,  with  its  summer 
walls  covered  with  the  richest  honeysuckles,  and  in  tlie 
midst  of  the  brightest  of  all  the  gardens.  It  alone  now 
sent  up  its  smoke  into  the  clear  winter  sky ;  and  its 
little  end  window,  now  lighted  up,  was  the  only  ground- 
star  that  shone  towards  the  belated  traveller,  if  any  such 
ventured  to  cross,  on  a  winter  night,  a  scene  so  dreary 
and  desolate.  The  affairs  of  tlie  small  household  were 
all  arranged  for  the  night.  The  little  rough  pony  that 
had  drawn  in  a  sledge,  from  the  heart  of  the  Black-moss, 
the  fuel  by  whose  blaze  the  cotters  were  now  sitting 
cheerily,  and  the  little  Highland  cow,  whose  milk  enabled 
them  to  live,  were  standing  amicably  together,  under 
cover  of  a  rude  shed,  of  which  one  side  was  formed  by 
the  peat-stack,  and  which  was  at  once  byre  and  stable 
and  hen-roost.  Within,  the  clock  ticked  cheerfully  as 
the  firelight  reached  its  old  oak-wood  case  across  the 
yellow-sanded  floor ;  and  a  small  round  table  stood  be- 
tween, covered  Avith  a  snow-white  cloth,  on  which  were 
milk  and  oat-cakes,  the  morning,  midday,  and  evening 
meal  of  these  frugal  and  contented  cotters.  The  spades 
and  the  mattocks  of  the  laborer  were  collected  into  one 
corner,  and  showed  that  the  succeeding  day  was  the 
blessed  Sabbath ;  while  on  the  wooden  chimney-piece 
was  seen  lying  an  open  Bible  ready  for  family  worship. 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  187 

The  father  and  the  mother  were  sitting  together  with- 
out opening  their  lips,. but  with  their  hearts  overflowmg 
with  happiness;  for  on  this  Saturday  night  they  were, 
every  minute,  expecting  to  hear  at  the  latch  the  hand  of 
their  only  daughter,  a  maiden  of  about  fifteen  years,  who 
was  at  service  with  a  farmer  over  the  hiUs.  This  dutiful 
child  was,  as  they  knew,  to  bring  home  to  them  "  her 
sair-worn  penny  fee,"  a  pittance  which,  in  the  beauty  of 
her  girlhood,  she  earned  singing  at  her  work,  and  which, 
in  the  benignity  of  that  sinless  time,  she  would  pour 
with  tears  into  the  bosoms  she  so  dearly  loved.  Eorty 
shillmgs  a  year  were  all  the  wages  of  sweet  Hannah  Lee ; 
but  though  she  wore  at  her  labor  a  tortoise-sheU  comb 
in  her  auburn  hair,  and  though  in  the  kirk  none  were 
more  becomingly  arrayed  than  she,  one  half,  at  least,  of 
her  earnings  were  to  be  reserved  for  the  hohest  of  all 
purposes,  and  her  kind  innocent  heart  was  gladdened 
when  she  looked  on  the  little  purse  that  was,  on  the  long- 
expected  Saturday  night,  to  be  taken  from  her  bosom, 
and  put,  with  a  blessing,  into  the  hand  of  her  father, 
now  growing  old  at  his  daily  toils. 

Of  such  a  child  the  happy  cotters  were  thinking  in 
tlieir  silence.  And  well  indeed  might  they  be  called 
happy.  It  is  at  that  sweet  season  that  filial  piety  is 
most  beautiful.  Their  own  Hannah  had  just  outgrown 
the  meire  unthinking  gladness  of  childhood,  but  had  not 
yet  reached  that  time  when  inevitable  selfishness  mixes 
with  the  pure  current  of  love.  She  had  begun  to  think 
on  what  her  affectionate  heart  had  left  so  long;  and 
w'hen  she  looked  on  the  pale  face  and  bending  frame  of 
her  mother,  on  the  deepcuiug  wrinkles  and   whitening 


188  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

hairs  of  her  father,  often  would  she  lie  weeping  for  their 
sakes  on  her  midnight  bed,  and  wish  that  she  were 
beside  them  as  they  slept,  that  she  might  kneel  down 
and  kiss  them,  and  mention  their  names  over  and  over 
again  in  her  prayer.  The  parents  whom  before  she  had 
only  loved,  her  expanding  heart  now  also  venerated. 
With  gushing  tenderness  was  now  mingled  a  holy  fear 
and  an  awful  reverence.  She  had  discerned  the  relation 
in  which  she,  an  only  child,  stood  to  her  poor  parents, 
now  that  they  were  getting  old,  and  there  was  not  a 
passage  in  Scripture  that  spake  of  parents  or  of  children, 
from  Joseph  sold  into  slavery,  to  Mary  weeping  below 
the  Cross,  that  was  not  written,  never  to  be  obliterated, 
on  her  micorrupted  heart. 

The  father  rose  from  his  seat,  and  went  to  the  door, 
to  look  out  into  the  night.  The  stars  were  in  thousands, 
—  and  the  full  moon  was  risen.  It  was  almost  light  as 
day,  and  the  snow,  that  seemed  incrusted  with  diamonds, 
was  so  hardened  by  the  frost,  that  his  daughter's  home- 
ward feet  would  leave  no  mark  on  its  surface.  He  had 
been  toiling  all  day  among  the  distant  Castle -woods,  and, 
stiff  and  wearied  as  he  now  was,  he  was  almost  tempted 
to  go  to  meet  his  ciiild;  but  his  wife's  kind  voice  dis- 
suaded him,  and,  returning  to  the  fireside,  they  began  to 
talk  of  her,  whose  image  had  been  so  long  passing  before 
them  in  their  silence. 

"  She  is  growing  up  to  be  a  bonnic  lassie,"  said  the 
mother ;  "  her  long  and  weary  a1  tendance  on  me  during 
my  fever  last  spring  kept  her  down  awhile ;  but  now 
she  is  sjjrouting  fast  and  fair  as  a  lily,  and  may  the 
blessing  of  God  be  as  dew  and  as  sunshine  to  our  sweet 


THE    SXOW-STOR.M.  189 

flower  all  the  days  she  bloometh  upon  this  earth." 
"  Ay,  Agnes,"  replied  the  father,  "  we  are  not  very  old 
yet,  —  though  we  are  getting  older,  —  and  a  few  years 
will  bring  her  to  woman's  estate,  and  what  thing  on  this 
earth,  think  ye,  human  or  brute,  would  ever  think  of 
injuring  her  ?  Why,  I  was  speaking  about  her  yester- 
day to  the  minister  as  he  was  riding  by,  and  he  told  me 
that  none  answered  at  the  examination  in  the  kirk  so 
well  as  Hannah.  Poor  thing,  —  I  well  think  she  has 
all  the  Bible  by  heart,  —  indeed,  she  has  read  but  little 
else,  —  only  some  stories,  —  too  true  ones,  of  the  blessed 
martyrs,  and  some  of  the  auld  sangs  o'  Scotland,  in 
which  there  is  nothing  but  what  is  good,  and  wliich,  to 
be  sure,  she  sings,  God  bless  her,  sweeter  than  any 
laverock."  "  Ay,  were  we  both  to  die  this  very  night, 
she  would  be  happy.  Not  that  she  would  forget  us  all 
the  days  of  her  life.  But  have  you  not  seen,  husband, 
that  God  always  makes  the  orphan  happy  ?  None  so 
little  lonesome  as  they  !  They  come  to  make  friends  o' 
all  the  bonny  and  sweet  things  in  the  world,  around 
them,  and  all  the  kind  hearts  in  the  world  make  o'  them. 
They  come  to  know  that  God  is  more  especially  the 
Father  o'  them  on  earth  whose  parents  he  has  taken  up 
to  heaven ;  and  therefore  it  is  that  they  for  whom  so 
many  have  fears,  fear  not  at  all  for  themselves,  but  go 
dancing  and  singing  along  like  children  whose  parents 
are  both  alive  !  Would  it  not  be  so  with  our  dear  Han- 
nah ?  So  douce  and  thoughtful  a  child,  —  but  never 
sad  nor  miserable,  —  ready,  it  is  true,  to  shed  tears  for 
little,  but  as  ready  to  dry  them  up  and  break  out  into 
smiles  !     I  know  not  wliy  it  is,  husband,  but  this  night 


190  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

my  heart  warms  towards  lier  beyond  iisiiai.  T^^e  moon 
and  stars  are  at  this  moment  looking  down  upon  her, 
and  she  looking  up  to  them,  as  she  is  glinting  home- 
wards over  the  snow.  I  wish  she  were  but  here,  and 
taking  the  comb  out  o'  her  bonny  hair  and  letting  it  fall 
down  in  clusters  before  the  fire,  to  melt  away  the  cran- 
reuch." 

While  the  parents  were  thus  speaking  of  their  daugh- 
ter, a  loud  sough  of  wind  came  suddenly  over  the  cottage, 
and  the  leafless  ash-tree,  under  whose  shelter  it  stood, 
creaked  and  groaned  dismally  as  it  passed  by.  The 
father  started  up,  and,  going  again  to  the  door,  saw  that  a 
sudden  change  had  come  over  the  face  of  the  night.  The 
moon  had  nearly  disappeared,  and  was  just  visible  in  a 
dim,  yellow,  glimmering  den  in  the  sky.  All  the  remote 
stars  were  obscured,  and  only  one  or  two  faintly  seemed 
in  a  sky  that  half  an  hour  before  was  perfectly  cloudless, 
but  that  was  now  diiving  with  rack  and  mist  and  sleet, 
the  whole  atmosphere  being  in  commotion.  He  stood 
for  a  single  moment  to  observe  the  dii-ection  of  this  un- 
foreseen storm,  and  then  hastily  asked  for  his  staff.  "  I 
tliouglit  I  had  been  more  weatherwise.  A  storm  is 
coming  down  from  the  Cairnbrachawse,  and  we  shall 
have  nothing  but  a  wild  night."  He  then  whistled  on 
liis  dog,  —  an  old  sheep-dog,  too  old  for  its  former  labors, 
—  and  set  oif  to  meet  his  daugliter,  who  might  then,  for 
aught  he  knew,  be  crossing  the  Black-moss.  The  mother 
accompanied  her  husband  to  the  door,  and  took  a  long, 
friglitened  look  at  the  angry  sky.  As  she  kept  gazing, 
it  became  still  more  lerrible.  The  last  shred  of  bhic 
was  extinguished;    the  wind  went  whirhng  in  roaring 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  191 

eddies,  and  great  flakes  of  snow  circled  about  in  the 
middle  air,  whether  drifted  up  from  the  ground,  or  driven 
down  from  the  clouds,  the  fear-stricken  mother  knew  not, 
but  she  at  last  knew  that  it  seemed  a  night  of  danger, 
despair,  and  death.  "  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  James, 
what  will  become  of  our  poor  bairn  !  "  But  her  hus- 
band heard  not  her  words,  for  he  was  already  out  of 
sight  in  the  snow-storm,  and  she  was  left  to  the  terror 
of  her  own  soul  in  that  lonesome  cottage. 

Little  Hannah  Lee  had  left  her  master's  house,  soon 
as  the  *rim  of  the  great  moon  was  seen  by  her  eyes,  that 
had  been  long  anxiously  watching  it  from  the  window,  ris- 
ing, like  a  joyful  dream,  over  the  gloomy  mountain-tops ; 
and  all  by  herself  she  tripped  along  beneath  the  beauty 
of  the  silent  heaven.  Still  as  she  kept  ascending  and 
descending  the  knolls  that  lay  in  the  bosom  of  the  glen, 
she  sung  to  herself  a  song,  a  hymn,  or  a  psalm,  without 
the  accompaniment  of  the  streams,  now  all  silent  in  the 
frost;  and  ever  and  anon  she  stopped  to  try  to  count 
the  stars  that  lay  in  some  more  beautiful  part  of  the  sky, 
or  gazed  on  the  constellations  that  she  knew,  and  called 
them  in  her  joy  by  the  names  they  bore  among  the 
shepherds.  There  were  none  to  hear  her  voice,  or  see 
her  smiles,  but  the  ear  and  eye  of  Providence.  As  on 
she  glided,  and  took  her  looks  from  heaven,  she  saw  her 
own  little  fireside,  —  her  parents  waiting  for  her  arrival, 

—  the  Bible  opened  for  worship,  —  her  own  Uttle  room 
kept  so  neatly  for  her,  with  its  mirror  hanging  by  the 
window,  in  which  to  braid  her  hair  by  the  morning  light, 

—  her  bed  prepared  for  her  by  her  mother's  hand,  —  the 
primroses  in  the  garden  peeping  through  the  snow,  — 


192  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

old  Tray,  who  ever  welcomed  lier  home  with  his  dim 
white  eyes,  —  the  pony  and  the  cow ;  friends  all,  and 
inmates  of  that  happy  household.  So  stepped  she  along, 
while  the  snow  diamonds  glittered  around  her  feet,  and 
the  frost  wove  a  wreath  of  lucid  pearls  round  her  fore- 
head. 

She  had  now  reached  the  edge  of  the  Black -moss, 
which  lay  half-way  between  her  master's  and  her  father's 
dwelling,  when  she  heard  a  loud  noise  coming  down 
Glen-Scrae,  and  in  a  few  seconds  she  felt  on  her  face 
some  flakes  of  snow.  She  looked  up  the  glen,  and  saw 
the  snow-storm  coming  down,  fast  as  a  flood.  She  felt 
no  fears ;  but  she  ceased  her  song ;  and  had  there  been  a 
luiman  eye  to  look  upon  her  there,  it  might  have  seen  a 
shadow  on  her  face.  She  continued  her  course,  and  felt 
bolder  and  bolder  every  step  that  brought  her  nearer  to 
her  parents'  house.  But  the  snow-stonn  had  now  reached 
the  Black -moss,  and  the  broad  line  of  light  that  had  lain 
in  the  direction  of  her  home  was  soon  swallowed  up,  and 
the  child  was  in  utter  darkness.  She  saw  nothing  but 
the  flakes  of  snow,  interminably  intermingled,  and  furi- 
ously wafted  in  the  air,  close  to  her  head ;  she  heard 
nothing  but  one  wild,  fierce,  fitful  howl.  The  cold  be- 
came intense,  and  her  little  feet  and  hands  were  fast  being 
benumbed  into  insensibility. 

"It  is  a  fearful  change,"  muttered  the  child  to  herself; 
but  still  she  did  not  fear,  for  she  had  been  born  in  a 
moorland  cottage,  and  lived  all  her  days  among  the  hard- 
ships of  the  hills.  "  What  will  become  of  the  poor 
sheep !  "  tliouglit  she ;  but  still  she  scarcely  thought  of 
her  own  danger,  for  innocence  and  youth  and  joy   are 


THE    SNOW-STOHM.  193 

slow  to  think  of  aught  evil  hofalliiig  themselves,  and, 
thinking  benignly  of  all  living  things,  forget  their  own 
fear  in  their  pity  for  others'  sorrow.  At  last  she  could 
no  longer  discern  a  single  mark  on  the  snow,  either  of 
human  steps,  or  of  sheep-track,  or  the  footprint  of  a 
wild-fowl.  Suddenly,  too,  she  felt  out  of  breath  and 
exhausted,  —  and,  shedding  tears  for  herself  at  last,  sank 
/lown  in  the  snow. 

It  was  now  that  her  heart  began  to  quake  with  fear. 
She  remembered  stories  of  shepherds  lost  in  the  snow, 
—  of  a  mother  and  child  frozen  to  death  on  that  very 
moor,  —  and  in  a  moment  she  knew  that  she  was  to  die. 
Bitterly  did  the  poor  child  weep,  for  death  was  terrible 
to  her,  who,  though  poor,  enjoyed  the  bright  little  world 
of  youth  and  innocence.  The  skies  of  heaven  were 
dearer  than  she  knew  to  her,  —  so  were  the  flowers  of 
earth.  She  had  been  happy  at  her  work,  —  happy  in  her 
sleep,  —  happy  in  the  kirk  on  Sabbath.  A  thousand 
thoughts  had  the  solitary  child,  —  and  in  her  own  heart 
was  a  spring  of  happiness,  pure  and  undisturbed  as 
any  fount  that  sparkles  unseen  all  the  year  through 
in  some  quiet  nook  among  the  pastoral  hills.  But  now 
there  was  to  be  an  end  of  all  this,  —  she  was  to  be 
fi-ozen  to  death,  —  and  lie  there  till  the  thaw  might  come  ; 
and  then  her  father  would  find  her  body,  and  carry  it 
away  to  be  buried  in  the.kirk-yard. 

The  tears  were  frozen  on  her  cheeks  as  soon  as  shed ; 
and  scarcely  had  her  little  hands  strength  to  clasp 
themselves  together,  as  the  thought  of  an  overruling  and 
merciful  Lord  came  across  her  heart.  Then,  indeed,  the 
f?ars  of  this  religious  child  were  cali'ned,  and  she  heard 

VOL.  VII.  9  M 


194  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

witliout  terror  the  plover's  wailing  cry,  and  the  deep 
boom  of  the  bittern  sounding  in  the  moss.  "  I  mIII  re- 
peat the  Lord's  Prayer."  And,  drawing  her  plaid  more 
closely  around  her,  she  whispered,  beneath  its  ineffectual 
cover,  "  Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  thy 
name,  —  thy  kingdom  come,  —  thy  will  be  done  on  earth 
as  it  is  in  heaven."  Had  human  aid  been  within  fifty 
yards,  it  could  have  been  of  no  avail,  —  eye  could  not  see 
her,  —  ear  could  not  hear  her  in  that  howling  darkness. 
But  that  low  prayer  was  heard  in  the  centre  of  eternity  ; 
and  that  little  shiless  child  was  lying  in  the  snow,  be- 
neath the  all-seeing  eye  of  God. 

The  maiden  having  prayed  to  her  Father  in  heaven, 
then  thought  of  her  father  on  earth.  Alas  !  they  were 
not  far  separated !  The  father  was  lying  but  a  short 
distance  from  his  child ;  he  too  had  sunk  down  in  the 
drifting  snow,  after  having,  in  less  than  an  hour,  ex- 
hausted all  the  strength  of  fear,  pity,  hope,  despair,  and 
resignation,  that  could  rise  in  a  father's  heart  blindly 
seeking  to  rescue  his  only  child  from  death,  thinking 
that  one  desperate  exertion  might  enable  them  to  perish 
in  each  other's  arms.  There  they  lay,  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  each  other,  while  a  huge  snow-drift  was  every 
moment  piling  itself  up  into  a  more  insurmountable  bar- 
rier between  the  dying  parent  and  liis  dying  child. 

There  was  all  this  while  a  blazing  fire  in  the  cottage, 
a  white-spread  table,  and  beds  prepared  for  the  family 
to  lie  down  in  peace.  Yet  was  she  who  sat  therein 
more  to  be  pitied  than  the  old  man  and  the  cliild* 
stretched  upon  tlic  snow.  "  I  will  not  go  to  seek  them ; 
tJ)ut  wouj^l  be   tempting   Providence,  and  wilfully  j)u1- 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  195 

ting  out  the  lamp  of  life.  No !  I  will  abide  here  and 
praj  for  their  souls  !  "  Then,  as  she  knelt  down, 
looked  she  at  the  useless  fire  burning  away  so  cheer- 
fully,- when  all  she  loved  might  be  dying  of  cold; 
and,  unable  to  bear  the  thought,  she  shrieked  out  a 
prayer,  as  if  she  might  pierce  the  sky  to  the  very 
throne  of  God,  and  send  with  it  her  own  miserable  soul 
to  plead  before  him  for  the  deliverance  of  her  child  and 
Imsband.  She  then  fell  down  in  blessed  forgetfulness 
of  all  trouble,  in  the  midst  of  the  solitary  cheerfulness 
of  that  bright-burning  hearth  ;  and  the  Bible,  which  she 
liad  been  trying  to  read  in  the  pauses  of  her  agony, 
remained  clasped  in  her  hands. 

Hannah  Lee  had  been  a  servant  for  more  than  six 
months,  and  it  was  not  to  be  thought  that  she  was  not 
beloved  in  her  master's  family.  Soon  after  she  had  left 
the  house,  her  master's  son,  a  youth  of  about  eighteen 
years,  who  had  been  among  the  hills  looking  after  the 
sheep,  came  home,  and  was  disappointed  to  find  that 
lie  had  lost  an  opportunity  of  accoinpanying  Hannah 
part  of  the  way  to  her  father's  cottage.  But  the  hour 
of  eight  had  gone  by,  and  not  even  the  company  of 
young  William  Grieve  could  induce  the  kind-hearted 
daughter  to  delay  setting  out  on  her  journey  a  few  min- 
utes beyond  the  time  promised  to  her  parents.  "  I  do 
not  like  the  night,"  said  William ;  "  there  will  be  a 
fresh  fall  of  snow  soon,  or  the  witch  of  Glen-Scrae  is  a 
liar,  for  a  snow-cloud  is  hanging  o'er  the  Birch-tree-lin, 
and  it  may  be  down  to  the  Black-moss  as  soon  as  Han- 
nah Lee."  So  he  called  his  two  sheep-dogs  that  had 
taken  their  place  under  tiie  long  table  before  the  win- 


196  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

dow,  and  set  out,  half  in  joy,  half  in  fear,  to  overtake 
Hannah,  and  see  her  safely  across  the  Black-moss. 

The  snow  began  to  drift  so  fast,  that  before  he  had 
reached  the  head  of  the  glen,  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  a  little  bit  of  the  wooden  rail  of  the  bridge 
across  the  Sauch-burn.  William  Grieve  was  the  most 
active  shepherd  in  a  large  pastoral  parish ;  he  had  often 
passed  the  night  among  the  wintry  hills  for  the  sake  of 
a  few  sheep,  and  all  the  snow  that  ever  fell  from  heaven 
would  not  have  made  him  turn  back  when  Hannah  Lee 
was  before  him,  and,  as  his  terrified  heart  told  him,  in 
imminent  danger  of  being  lost.  As  he  advanced,  he  felt 
that  it  was  no  longer  a  walk  of  love  or  friendship,  for 
which  he  had  been  glad  of  an  excuse.  Death  stared 
him  in  tlie  face,  and  his  young  soul,  now  beginning  to 
feel  all  the  passions  of  youth,  was  filled  with  frenzy.  He 
had  seen  Hannah  every  day,  —  at  the  fireside,  —  at  work, 
—  in  the  kirk,  —  on  holidays,  —  at  prayers,  —  bringing 
supper  to  his  aged  parents,  —  smiling  and  singing  about 
the  house  from  morning  till  night.  She  had  often 
brought  his  own  meal  to  him  among  the  hills ;  and  he 
now  found  that  though  he  had  never  talked  to  her 
about  love,  except  smilingly  and  playfully,  he  loved  her 
beyond  fatlier  or  mother,  or  his  own  soul.  "I  will  save 
thee,  Hannah,"  he  cried,  with  a  loud  sob,  "  or  lie  down 
beside  thee  in  the  snow;  and  we  will  die  together  in 
our  youth."  A  wild,  whistUng  wind  went  by  him,  and 
the  snow-flakes  whirled  so  fiercely  around  his  head, 
that  he  staggered  on  for  a  Avliile  in  utter  blindness.  He 
knew  the  ])ath  tliat  Haniiali  must  have  taken,  and  went 
forward     slioutiiig    aloud,    and    stopping   every    twenty 


a 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  197 

yards  to  listen  for  a  voice.  He  sent  his  well-trained 
dogs  over  the  snow  in  all  directions ;  repeating  to  them 
her  name,  "Hannah  Lee,"  that  the  dumb  animals  might, 
in  their  sagacity,  know  for  whom  they  were  searching ; 
and  as  they  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  set  off  to  scour 
the  moor,  he  almost  believed  that  they  knew  his  mean- 
ing (and  it  is  probable  they  did),  and  were  eager  to  find 
in  her  bewilderment  the  kind  maiden  by  whose  hand 
they  had  so  often  been  fed.  Often  went  they  off  into 
the  darkness,  and  as  often  returned,  but  their  looks 
showed  that  every  quest  had  been  in  vain.  Meanwhile 
the  snow  was  of  a  fearful  depth,  and  falling  without 
intermission  or  diminution.  Had  the  young  shepherd 
been  thus  alone,  walking  across  the  moor  on  his  ordi- 
nary business,  it  is  probable  that  he  might  have  been 
alarmed  for  his  own  safety ;  nay,  that,  in  spit^of  all  his 
strength  and  agility,  he  might  have  sunk  down  beneath 
the  inclemency  of  the  night  and  perished.  But  now 
the  passion  of  his  soul  carried  him  with  supernatural 
strength  along,  and  extricated  him  from  wreath  and 
pitfall.  Still  there  was  no  trace  of  poor  Hannah  Lee  : 
and  one  of  his  dogs  at  last  came  close  to  his  feet, 
worn  out  entirely,  and  afraid  to  leave  its  master; 
while  the  other  was  mute,  and,  as  the  shepherd  thought, 
probably  unable  to  force  its  way  out  of  some  hollow  or 
through  some  floundering  drift.  Then  he  all  at  once  knew 
that  Hannah  Lee  was  dead,  —  and  dashed  himself  down 
in  the  snow  in  a  fit  of  passion.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
the  youth  had  ever  been  sorely  tried  ;  all  his  hidden 
and  unconscious  love  for  the  fair  lost  girl  had  flowed  up 
from   the   bottom  of  his   heart ;  and  at  once   the  sole 


198  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

object  wliicli  had  blest  his  life  and  made  him  the  happi- 
est of  the  happy  was  taken  away  and  cruelly  destroyed, 
so  that,  sullen,  wrathful,  baffled,  and  despairing,  there  he 
lay,  cursing  his  existence,  and  in  too  great  agony  to 
think  of  prayer.  "  God,"  he  then  thought,  "  has  for- 
saken me,  and  why  should  he  think  on  me,  when  he 
suffers  one  so  good  and  beautiful  as  Hannah  to  be 
frozen  to  death  ?  "  God  thought  both  of  him  and  of 
Hannah,  and  through  his  infinite  mercy  forgave  the 
sinner  in  his  wild  turbulence  of  passion.  WiUiam  Grieve 
had  never  gone  to  bed  without  joining  in  prayer; 
and  he  revered  the  Sabbath  day  and  kept  it  holy. 
Much  is  forgiven  to  the  human  heart  by  him  who  so 
fearfully  framed  it ;  and  God  is  not  slow  to  pardon  the 
love  which  one  human  being  bears  to  another,  in  his 
frailty,  even  though  that  love  forget  or  arraign  his 
own  unsleeping  providence.  His  voice  has  told  us  to 
love  one  another;  and  William  loved  Hannah  in  sim- 
plicity, innocence,  and  truth.  That  she  should  perish, 
was  a  thought  so  dreadful,  that,  in  its  agony,  God 
seemed  a  ruthless  being  —  "Blow — blow — blow,  and 
drift  us  up  forever, — we  camiot  be  far  asunder.  O 
Hannah,  —  Hannah  !  —  think  ye  not  that  the  fearful 
God  has  forsaken  us  ?  " 

As  tlie  boy  groaned  these  words  passionately  through 
his  (juivering  lips,  there  was  a  sudden  lowness  in  tlie  air, 
and  he  hoard  the  barking  of  his  absent  dog,  while  the 
one  at  his  feet  hurried  off  in  the  direction  of  the  sound, 
and  soon  loudly  joined  the  cry.  It  was  not  a  bark  of 
surprise,  or  anger,  or  fear,  but  of  recognition  and  love. 
William  sprang  up  from  liis  bed  in  the  snow,  and  with 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  109 

his  heart  knocking  at  his  bosom  even  to  sickness,  he 
rushed  headlong  through  the  drifts,  with  a  giant's 
strength,  and  fell  down  half  dead  with  joy  and  terror 
beside  the  body  of  Hannah  Lee. 

But  he  soon  recovered  from  that  fit,  and,  Kftmg  the 
cold  corpse  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her  lips,  and  her 
cheeks,  and  her  forehead,  and  her  closed  eyes,  till,  as 
he  kept  gazing  on  her  face  in  utter  despair,  her  head 
fell  back  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  long,  deep  sigh  came 
from  her  inmost  bosom.  "  She  is  yet  aUve,  thank  God  !  " 
And  as  that  expression  left  his  Hps  for  the  first  time 
that  night,  he  felt  a  pang  of  remorse.  "  I  said,  0  God, 
that  thou  hadst  forsaken  us;  I  am  not  worthy  to  be 
saved;  but  let  not  this  maiden  perish,  for  the  sake  of 
her  parents,  who  have  no  other  child."  The  distracted 
youth  prayed  to  God  with  the  same  .earnestness  as  if  he 
had  been  beseeching  a  fellow-creature,  in  whose  hand 
was  the  power  of  life  and  of  death.  The  presence  of  the 
Great  Being  was  felt  by  him  in  the  dark  and  howling 
wild,  and  strength  was  imparted  to  him  as  to  a  deliverer. 
He  bore  along  the  fair  child  in  his  arms,  even  as  if  she 
had  been  a  lamb.  The  snow-drift  blew  not,  — the  wind 
fell  dead,  —  a  sort  of  glimmer,  like  that  of  an  upbreaking 
and  disparting  storm,  gathered  about  him,  —  his  dogs 
barked  and  jumped,  and  burrowed  joyfully  in  the  snow, 
—  and  the  youth,  strong  in  sudden  hope,  exclaimed, 
"  With  the  blessing  of  God,  who  has  not  deserted  us 
in  our  sore  distress,  will  I  carry  thee,  Hannah,  in  my 
arms,  and  lay  thee  down  alive  in  the  house  of  thy 
father." 

At  this  moment  there  were  no  stars  in  heaven,  but  she 


200  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

opened  her  dim  blue  eyes  upon  liim  iii  whose  bosom 
she  was  unconsciously  lying,  and  said,  as  in  a  dream, 
"  Send  the  riband  that  ties  up  my  hair  as  a  keepsake 
to  William  Grieve." 

"  She  thinks  that  she  is  on  her  death-bed,  and  forgets 
not  the  son  of  her  master.  It  is  the  voice  of  God  that 
tells  mc  she  will  not  now  die,  and  that,  under  His  grace, 
I  shall  be  her  deliverer." 

The  short-lived  rage  of  the  storm  was  soon  over,  and 
Wilham  could  attend  to  the  beloved  behig  on  his  bosom. 
The  warmth  of  his  heart  seemed  to  infuse  life  into  hers ; 
and  as  he  gently  placed  her  feet  on  the  snow,  till  he 
muffled  her  up  in  his  plaid,  as  well  as  in  her  own,  she 
made  an  effort  to  stand,  and  with  extreme  perplexity 
and  bewilderment  faintly  inquired  where  she  was,  and 
what  fearful  misfortune  had  befallen  them.  She  was, 
however,  too  weak  to  walk  ;  and  as  her  young  master 
carried  her  along,  she  murmured,  "  O  William  !  what  if 
my  father  be  in  the  moor  ?  For  if  you,  who  need  care 
so  little  about  me,  have  come  hither,  as  I  suppose,  to 
save  my  life,  you  may  be  sure  that  my  father  sat  uot 
within  doors  during  the  storm." 

As  she  spoke,  it  was  calm  below,  but  the  wind  was 
still  alive  in  the  upper  air,  and  cloud,  rack,  mist,  and 
sleet  were  all  driving  about  in  the  sky.  Out  shone  for 
a  moment  the  pallid  and  ghostly  moon,  through  a  rent 
in  the  gloom,  and  by  that  uncertain  light  came  stagger- 
ing forward  the  figure  of  a  man.  "  Father,  father,"  cried 
llunnali,  and  his  gray  hairs  were  already  on  her  cheek. 
The  barking  of  the  dogs  and  the  shouting  of  the  young 
slicpiierd  had  struck  his  ear,  as  the  sleep  of  death  was 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  201 

stealing  over  him,  and  witli  the  last  effort  of  benumbed 
nature  lie  4iad  roused  himself  from  that  fatal  torpor,  and 
pressed  through  the  snow-wreath  that  had  separated  him 
from  his  child.  As  yet  they  knew  not  of  the  danger  each 
had  endured ;  but  each  judged  of  the  other's  suffering 
from  their  own,  and  father  and  daughter  regarded  one 
another  as  creatures  rescued,  and  hardly  yet  rescued, 
from  death. 

But  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  the  three  human  beings 
who  loved  each  other  so  well,  and  now  feared  not  to 
cross  the  moor  in  safety,  were,  as  they  thought,  on 
their  death-beds.  Deliverance  now  shone  upon  them 
all  like  a  gentle  fire,  dispelling  that  pleasant  but  deadly 
drowsiness ;  and  the  old  man  was  soon  able  to  assist 
William  Grieve  in  leading  Hannah  along  through  the 
snow.  Her  color  and  her  warmth  returned,  and  her 
lover  —  for  so  might  he  well  now  be  called  —  felt  her 
heart  gently  beating  against  his  side.  Filled  as  that 
heart  was  with  gratitude  to  God,  joy  in  her  deliver- 
ance, love  to  her  father,  and  purest  affection  for  her 
master's  son,  never  before  had  the  innocent  maiden 
known  what  was  happiness,  and  nevermore  was  she  to 
forget  it. 

The  night  was  now  almost  calm,  and  fast  returning 
to  its  former  beauty,  when  the  party  saw  the  first 
twinkle  of  the  fire  through  the  low  window  of  the 
Cottage  of  the  Moor.  They  soon  were  at  the  garden 
gate ;  and  to  relieve  the  heart  of  the  wife  and  mother 
withm,  they  talked  loudly  and  cheerfully,  naming  each 
other  famiHarly,  and  laughing  between,  like  persons  who 
had  known  neither  danger  nor  distress. 
9* 


20'Z  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

No  voice  answered  from  -withm,  do  footstep  came  to 
the  door^  whicL  stood  open  as  when  the  father  had  left 
it  in  his  fear ;  and  now  he  thought  with  affright  that  his 
wife,  feeble  as  she  was,  had  been  unable  to  support  the 
loneliness,  and  had  followed  him  out  into  the  night, 
never  to  be  brought  home  alive.  As  they  bore  Hannah 
into  the  house,  this  fear  gave  way  to  worse,  for  there 
upon  the  hard  clay  floor  lay  the  mother  upon  her  face, 
as  if  murdered  by  some  savage  blow.  She  was  in  the 
same  deadly  swoon  into  which  she  had  fallen  on  her 
husband's  departure,  three  hours  before.  The  old  man 
raised  her  up,  and  her  pulse  was  still ;  so  was  her 
heart ;  her  face  pale  and  sunken,  and  her  body  cold  as 
ice.  "  I  have  recovered  a  daughter,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  but  I  have  lost  a  wife."  And  he  carried  her,  with  a 
groan,  to  the  bed,  on  wliich  lie  laid  her  lifeless  body. 
The  sight  was  too  mucli  for  Hannah,  worn  out  as  she 
was,  and  who  had  hitherto  been  able  to  su])port  herself 
in  the  delightful  expectation  of  gladdening  her  motlicr's 
heart  by  her  safe  arrival.  She,  too,  now  swooned  away, 
and  as  she  was  placed  on  the  bed,  beside  her  mother,  it 
seemed,  indeed,  that  death,  disappointed  of  his  prey  on 
the  wild  moor,  had  seized  it  in  the  cottage  and  by  the 
fireside.  The  husband  knelt  down  by  tlie  bedside,  and 
lield  liis  wife's  icy  liand  in  his,  wliile  William  Grieve, 
appalled  and  awe-stricken,  hung  over  his  Hannah,  and 
inwardly  implored  God  that  the  night's  wild  adventure 
might  not  have  so  ghastly  an  end.  But  Hannah's  young 
lieart  soon  began  once  more  to  beat ;  and  soon  as  she 
came  to  her  recollection,  she  rose  with  a  face  whiter  than 
ashes,  and  free  from  all  smiles,  as  if  none  had  ever  played 


THE    SXOW-STORM.  203 

there,  and  joined  her  father  and  young  master  in  their 
efforts  to  restore  her  mother  to  life. 

It  was  tlie  mercy  of  God  that  had  struck  lier  down  to 
the  earth,  insensible  to  the  shrieking  winds,  and  the  fears 
that  would  otherwise  have  killed  her.  Tliree  hours  of 
that  wild  storm  had  passed  over  her  head,  and  she  heard 
notliing  more  than  if  she  had  been  asleep  in  a  breathless 
night  of  the  summer  dew.  Not  even  a. dream  had  touched 
h3r  brain ;  and  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  which,  as  she 
thought,  had  been  but  a  moment  shut,  she  had  scarcely 
time  to  recall  to  her  recollection  the  image  of  her  hus- 
band rushing  out  into  the  storm  and  of  a  daughter  therein 
lost,  till  she  beheld  that  very  husband  kneeling  tenderly 
by  her  bedside,  and  that  very  daughter  smoothing  the 
pillow  on  which  her  aching  temples  reclined.  But  she 
knew  from  the  white,  steadfast  countenances  before  her 
that  there  had  been  tribulation  and  deliverance,  and  she 
looked  on  the  beloved  beings  ministering  by  her  bed,  as 
more  fearfully  dear  to  her  from  the  unimagined  danger 
from  wliich  she  felt  assured  they  had  been  rescued  by 
the  arm  of  the  Almighty. 

There  is  little  need  to  speak  of  returning  recollection 
and  returning  strength.  They  had  all  now  power  to 
weep  and  power  to  pray.  The  Bible  had  been  lying  in 
its  place  ready  for  worship ;  and  the  father  read  aloud 
that  chapter  in  which  is  narrated  our  Saviour's  act  of 
miraculous  power,  by  which  he  saved  Peter  from  the  sea. 
Soon  as  the  solemn  thoughts  awakened  by  that  act  of 
mercy,  so  similar  to  that  which  had  rescued  themselves 
from  death,  had  subsided,  and  they  had  all  risen  from 
prayer,  they  gathered  themselves  ui  gratitude  around  the 


204  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

little  table  wliicli  had  stood  so  many  hours  spread ;  and 
exhausted  nature  was  strengthened  and  restored  by  a 
frugal  and  simple  meal  partaken  of  in  silent  thankfulness. 
The  whole  story  of  the  night  was  then  recited ;  and  when 
the  mother  heard  how  the  stripling  had  followed  her 
sweet  Hannah  into  the  storm,  and  borne  her  in  his  arms 
through  a  hundred  drifted  heaps,  — and  then  looked  upon 
her  in  her  pride,  so  young,  so  innocent,  and  so  beautiful, 
she  knew  that,  were  the  child  indeed  to  become  an  orphan, 
there  was  one  who,  if  there  was  either  trust  in  nature  or 
truth  in  religion,  would  guard  and  cherish  her  all  the 
days  of  her  life. 

It  was  not  nine  o'clock  wlien  the  storm  came  down 
from  Glen  Scrae  upon  the  Black-moss,  and  now  in  a 
pause  of  silence  the  clock  struck  twelve.  Within  these 
three  hours  William  and  Hannah  had  led  a  life  of  trouble 
and  of  joy,  that  had  enlarged  and  kindled  their  hearts, 
within  them,  and  they  felt  that  henceforth  they  were 
to  live  wholly  for  each  other's  sake.  His  love  was  the 
proud  and  exulting  love  of  a  deliverer  who,  under  Provi- 
dence, had  saved  from  the  frost  and  the  snow,  the  inno- 
cence and  the  beauty  of  which  his  young  passionate  heart 
had  been  so  desperately  enamored ;  and  he  now  thought 
of  his  own  Hannah  Lee  evermore  moving  about  his 
father's  liouse,  not  as  a  servant,  but  as  a  daughter ;  and 
when  some  few  happy  years  had  gone  by  his  own  most 
beautiful  and  most  loving  wife.  The  innocent  maiden 
still  called  liim  lier  young  master,  but  was  not  ashamed 
of  llic  lioly  alfcction  wliich  she  now  knew  tliat  she  had 
]oiig  felt  for  the  fearless  youtli  on  wliose  bosom  she  had 
lliouglit  liorsolf  (lying  in  tliat.cold  and  miserable  moor. 


THE    SNOW-STORM.  205 

Her  lipart  leaped  witliin  her  wlien  she  heard  her  parents 
bless  him  by  his  name ;  and  when  he  took  her  hand  into 
his  before  them,  and  vowed  before  that  Power  who  had 
tliat  night  saved  them  from  the  snow,  that  Hannah  Lee 
should  erelong  be  his  wedded  wife,  she  wept  and  sobbed 
as  if  her  heart  woidd  break  in  a  fit  of  strange  and  in- 
supportable happiness. 

Tiie  yoUng  shepherd  rose  to  bid  them  farewell.  "  My 
father  will  think  I  am  lost,"  said  he,  with  a  grave  smile, 
"  and  my  Hannah's  mother  knows  what  it  is  to  fear  for 
a  child."  So  nothing  was  said  to  detain  him,  and  the 
family  went  with  him  to  the  door.  The  skies  smiled  as 
serenely  as  if  a  storm  had  never  swept  before  the  stars ; 
the  moon  was  sinking  from  her  meridian,  but  in  cloudless 
splendor,  and  the  hollow  of  .the  hills  was  hushed  as  that 
of  heaven.  Danger  there  was  none  over  the  placid  night- 
scene;  the  happy  youth  soon  crossed  the  Black-moss, 
now  perfectly  still ;  and,  perhaps,  just  as  he  was  passing, 
with  a  shudder  of  gratitude,  the  very  spot  where  liis 
sweet  Hamiah  Lee  had  so  nearly  perished,  she  was  lying 
down  to  sleep  in  her  innocence,  or  dreaming  of  one  now 
dearer  to  her  than  all  on  earth  but  her  parents. 


THE   KING   OF   THE   PEAK. 


BY  ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 


T  happened  once  in  a  northern  county  that  I 
found  myself  at  a  farmer's  fireside,  and  in  com- 
pany which  the  four  winds  of  heaven  seemed  to 
liave  blown  together.  The  farmer  was  a  joyous  old 
man ;  and  the  evening,  a  wintry  one,  and  wild  with  wind 
and  snow,  flew  away  with  jest  and  mirth  and  tale  and 
song.  Our  entertainer  had  no  wish  that  our  joy  should 
subside ;  for  he  lieaped  the  fire  till  the  house  shone  to 
its  remotest  rafter,  loaded  his  table  with  rustic  delica- 
cies, and  once  when  a  pause  ensued  after  the  chanting  of 
one  of  llobin  Hood's  ballads,  he  called  out,  "  Why  stays 
the  story,  and  what  stops  the  rhyme  ?  Have  I  heated 
my  hearth,  have  I  spread  my  tables  and  poured  forth 
my  strong  drink,  for  the  poor  in  fancy  and  the  lame  in 
speech  ?  Up,  lip  ;  and  give  me  a  grave  tale  or  a  gay,  to 
gladden  or  sadden  ihc  present  moment,  and  lend  wings 
to  tlie  leaden  feet  of  evening  time.  ,  llise,  I  say:  else 
may  the  fire  that  flames  so  high ;  the  table  which  groans 
with  food,  for  which  water  and  air  and  earth  have  been 
sought ;  and  the  board  that   perfumes  you  with  the  odor 


THE  KING  OF  THE  PEAK.        207 

of  ale  and  mead, — may  the  first  cease  to  warm,  and  the 
rest  to  nourish  ye." 

"  Master,"  said  a  hale  and  joyous  personage,  whose 
shining  and  gladsome  looks  showed  sympathy  and  alli- 
ance with  the  good  cheer  and  fervent  blood  of  merry  old 
England,  "  since  thy  table  smokes,  and  thy  brown  ale 
flows  more  frankly  for  the  telling  of  a  true  old  tale,  then 
a  true  old  tale  thou  shalt  have ;  ^liame  fall  me  if  I  balk 
thee,  as  the  peasant  folks  say,  in  the  dales  of  bomiy 
Derby. 

"Those  who  have  never  seen  Haddon  Hall,  the  an- 
cient residence  of  the  Vernons  of  Derbyshire,  can  have 
but  an  imperfect  notion  of  the  golden  days  of  old  Eng- 
land. Though  now  deserted  and  dilapidated,  its  halls 
silent,  the  sacred  bell  of  its  chapel  mute ;  though  its 
tables  no  longer  send  up  the  cheering  smell  of  roasted 
boars  and  spitted  oxen;  though  the  music  and  the 
voice  of  the  minstrel  are  silenced,  and'  the  Hght  foot  of 
the  dancer  no  longer  sounds  on  the  floor ;  though  no 
gentle  knights  and  gentler  dames  go  trooping  hand  in 
hand,  and  whispering  among  the  twilight  groves,  and 
the  portal  no  longer  sends  out  its  sliining  helms  and  its 
barbed  steeds,  —  where  is  the  place  that  can  recall  the 
stately  hospitality  and  glory  of  former  times,  like  the 
Hall  of  old  Haddon? 

"  It  happened  on  a  summer  evening,  when  I  was 
a  boy,  that  several  curious  old  people  had  seated  them- 
selves on  a  little  round  knoll  near  the  gate  of  Haddon 
Hall ;  and  their  talk  was  of  the  Yernons,  the  Caven- 
dishes, the  Manners,  and  many  old  names  once  renowned 
in  Derbyshire.     I  had  fastened  myself  to  the  apron -string 


208  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

of  a  venerable  dame,  at  whose  girdle  liuug  a  mighty  iron 
key,  which  commanded  the  entrance  of  the  hall;  her 
name  was  Dolly  Foljambe ;  and  she  boasted  her  descent 
from  an  ancient  red  cross  knight  of  that  name,  whose 
alabaster  figure,  in  mail,  may  be  found  in  Bakewell 
church.  This  high  origin,  which,  on  consulting  family 
history,  I  find  had  not  the  concurrence  of  clergy,  seemed 
not  an  idle  vanity  of  the  humble  portress ;  she  had  the 
straight  frame,  and  rigid,  demure,  and  even  warlike  cast 
of  face,  which  alabaster  still  retains  of  her  ancestor  ;  and 
had  she  laid  herself  by  his  side,  she  might  have  passed 
muster,  Avith  an  ordinary  antiquarian,  for  a  coeval  figure. 
At  our  feet  the  river  Wye  ran  winding  and  deep ;  at  our 
side  rose  the  hall  huge  and  gray  ;  and  the  rough  heathy 
hills,  renowned  in  Druidic  and  Roman  and  Saxon  and 
Nonnan  story,  bounded  our  wish  for  distant  prospects, 
and  gave  us  the  mansion  of  the  Vernons  for  our  contem- 
plation, clear  of  all  meaner  encumbrances  of  landscape. 

"'Ah!  dame  Poljambe,'  said  an  old  husbandman, 
whose  hair  was  whitened  by  acquaintance  with  seventy 
winters,  'it's  a  sore  and  a  sad  sight  to  look  at  that 
fair  tower  and  see  no  smoke  ascendhig.  I  remember  it 
in  a  brighter  day,  when  many  a  fair  face  gazed  out  at  the 
windows,  and  many  a  gallant  form  appeared  at  the  gate. 
Tiuui  were  the  days  when  the  husbandman  could  live,  — 
could  whistle  as  he  sowed,  dance  and  sing  as  he  reaped, 
and  could  pay  his  rent  in  fatted  oxen  to  my  lord  and  in 
fatted  fowls  to  my  lady.  Ah !  dame  Toljambe,  we  re- 
member when  men  could  cast  Ihcir  lines  in  the  Wye ; 
C(juld  feast  on  the  red  deer  and  the  fallow  deer,  on  the 
plover  and  t lie  ptarmigan;  had  riglil  of  the  common  for 


THE    KING    OF    THE    PEAK.  209 

their  flocks,  of  the  flood  for  their  nets,  and  of  the  air  for 
their  harquebuss.  Ah  !  dame,  old  England  is  no  more 
the  old  England  it  was,  than  that  hall,  dark  and  silent 
and  desolate,  is  the  proud  hall  that  held  Sir  George  Ver- 
non, the  Kmg  of  the  Peak,  and  his  two  lovely-  daughters, 
Margaret  and  Bora.  Those  were  days,  dame;  those 
were  days ! '  And  as  he  ceased,  he  looked  up  to  the 
tower,  with  an  eye  of  sorrow,  and  shook  and  smoothed 
,down  liis  white  hairs. 

"'I  tell  thee,'  replied  the  ancient  portress,  sorely 
moved  in  mind  between  present  duty  and  service  to  the 
noble  owner  of  Haddon  and  her  lingering  affection  for 
the  good  old  times,  of  which  memory  shapes  so  many 
paradises,  — '  I  tell  thee  the  tower  looks  as  high  and  as 
lordly  as  ever ;  and  there  is  something  about  its  silent 
porch  and  its  crumbling  turrets  which  gives  it  a  deeper 
hold  of  our  affections  than  if  an  himdred  knights  even 
now  came  prancing  forth  at  its  porch,  with  trumpets 
blowing  and  banners  displayed.' 

"  '  Ah  !  dame  Eoljambe,'  said  the  husbandman,  '  yon 
deer  now  bounding  so  blithely  down  the  old  chase,  with 
his  horny  head  held  high,  and  an  eye  that  seems  to  make 
naught  of  mountain  and  vale,  it  is  a  fair  creature. 
Look  at  him  !  see  how  he  cools  his  feet  in  the  Wye,  sur- 
veys his  shadow  in  the  stream,  and  now  he  contemplates 
his  native  hills  again.  So !  away  he  goes,  and  we  gaze 
after  him,  and  admire  his  speed  and  his  beauty.  But 
were  the  hounds  at  his  flanks,  and  the  bullets  id  his  side, 
and  the  swords  of  the  hunters  bared  for  the  brittling, 
ah  !  dame,  we  should  change  our  cheer ;  we  should  think 
that  such  shapely  limbs  and  such  stately  antlers  miglit 


210  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

have  reigned  in  wood  and  on  hill  for  many  summers. 
Even  so  we  think  of  that  stately  old  hall,  and  lament  its 
destruction.' 

"'Dame  Foljambe  thinks  not  so  deeply  on  the  matter/ 
said  a  rustic  ;  '  she  thinks,  the  less  the  hall  fire,  the  less 
is  the  chance  of  the  hall  being  consumed ;  the  less  the 
company,  the  longer  will  the  old  hall  floor  last,  which  she 
sweeps  so  clean,  telling  so  many  stories  of  the  tree  that 
made  it ,  that  the  seven  Virtues  in  tapestry  would  do 
well  in  avoiding  wild  company ;  and  that  the  lass  with 
the  long  shanks,  Diana,  and  her  nytnphs,  will  hunt  more 
to  her  fancy  on  her  dusty  acre  of  old  arras,  than  in  the 
dubious  society  of  the  lords  and  the  heroes  of  the  court 
gazette.  Moreover,  the  key  at  her  girdle  is  the  counnis- 
sion  by  which  she  is  keeper  of  this  cast-oft'  and  moth- 
eaten  garment  of  the  noble  name  of  Manners  ;  and  think 
ye  that  she  holds  that  power  lightly,  which  makes  her 
governess  of  ten  thousand  bats  and  owls,  and  gives  her 
the  awful  resi)onsibility  of  an  armory  containing  almost 
an  entire  harquebuss,  the  remains  of  a  pair  of  boots, 
and  the  relique  of  a  buff  jerkin  r' ' 

"  What  answer  to  this  unceremonious  attack  on  ancient 
things  committed  to  her  keeping  the  portress  might  have 
made,  I  had  not  an  opportunity  to  learn ;  her  darkening 
brow  indicated  little  meekness  of  reply:  a  voice,  how- 
ever, much  sweeter  than  the  dame's  intruded  on  the 
debate.  lu  the  vicinity  of  tlie  hall,  at  the  foot  of  a 
limestone  rock,  the  summer  visitors  of  Haddon  may  and 
do  refresh  themselves  at  a  small  fount  of  pure  water, 
wliich  love  of  the  clear  element  induced  one  of  the  old 
ladies  to  c:;nline  wiliiin  lh(>  limits  of  a  hirg;'  sfosu-  l)asin. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  PEAK.        211 

Virtues  were  imputed  to  tlie  spriug,  and  the  superstition 
of  another  proprietor  erected  beside  it  a  cross  of  stone, 
lately  mutilated  and  now  removed,  but  once  covered 
with  sculptures  and  rude  emblems,  which  conveyed  relig- 
ious instruction  to  an  ignorant  people.  Towards  this 
fountain  a  maiden  from  a  neighboring  cottage  was  ob- 
served to  proceed,  warbling,  as  she  went,  a  fragment  of 
one  of  those  legendary  ballads  which  the  old  minstrels, 
illiterate  or  learned,  scattered  so  abundantly  over  the 
country. 

DORA  VERNON. 

It  happened  between  March  and  May-day, 

When  wood-buds  wake  which  slumbered  late. 
When  hill  and  valley  grow  green  and  gayly, 

And  every  wight  longs  for  a  mate  ; 
When  lovers  sleep  with  an  open  eyelid. 

Like  nightingales  on  the  orchard  tree. 
And  sorely  wish  they  had  wings  for  flying. 

So  they  might  with  their  true  love  be ; 

A  knight  all  worthy,  in  this  sweet  season. 

Went  out  to  Cardiff  with  bow  and  gun. 
Not  to  chase  the  roebuck,  nor  shoot  the  pheasant, 

But  hunt  the  fierce  fox  so  wild  and  dun. 
And  by  his  side  was  a  young  maid  riding, 

With  laughing  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair  ; 
And  who  was  it  but  young  Dora  Vernon, 

Young  Rutland's  true  love,  and  Haddon's  heir. 

Her  gentle  hand  was  a  good  bow  bearing ; 
■<._^  The  deer  at  speed  or  the  fowl  on  wing 


212  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Stayed  in  their  fliglit,  when  the  bearded  arrow 
Her  white  hand  loosed  from  the  sounding;  string. 

Old  men  made  bare  their  locks,  and  blest  her, 
As  blithe  she  rode  down  the  Dm-wood  side. 

Her  steed  rejoiced  in  his  lovely  rider. 

Arched  his  neck  proudly,  and  pi-anced  in  pride. 

"  This  unexpected  minstrelsy  was  soon  interrupted  by 
dame  Foljambe,  whose  total  devotion  to  the  family  of 
Rutland  rendered  her  averse  to  hear  the  story  of  Dora 
Vernon's  elopement  profaned  in  the  familiar  ballad  strain 
of  a  forgotten  minstrel.  '  I  wonder  at  the  presumption 
of  that  rude  minion,'  said  the  offended  portress,  'in 
chanting  such  ungentle  strains  in  my  ear.  Home  to 
thy  milk-pails,  idle  hussy,  —  home  to  thy  distaff,  foolish 
maiden ;  or,  if  thou  mlt  sing,  come  over  to  my  lodge 
when  the  sun  is  down,  and  I  will  teach  thee  a  strain  of 
a  higher  sort,  made  by.  a  great  court  lord,  on  the  mar- 
riage of  her  late  Grace.  It  is  none  of  your  rustic  chants, 
but  full  of  fine  words,  both  long  and  lordly  ;  it  beguis  : 

"  Come  burn  your  incense,  ye  godlike  graces, 
Come,  Cupid,  dip  your  darts  in  light ; 
Unloose  her  starry  zone,  chaste  Venus, 
And  trim  the  bride  for  the  bridal  night." 

"  '  None  of  your  vulgar  chants,  minion,  I  tell  thee ; 
but  stuffed  with  spiced  words,  and  shining  with  gods 
and  garters  and  stars  and  precious  stones,  and  odors 
tliickly  dr()i)i)iug;  a  noble  strain  indeed.'  The  maiden 
smiled,  nodded  acquiescence,  and,  tri))])ing  liomeward, 
renewed  her  homely  and  iiiterru])trd  song,  till  the  river- 


THE  KING  OF  THE  PEAK.        213 

bank  and  tlie  ancient  towers  acknowledged,  with  their 
Sweetest  echoes,  the  native  charms  of  her  voice. 

"'I  marvel  much,'  said  the  hoary  portress,  *at  the 
idle  love  for  strange  and  incredible  stories  which  pos- 
sesses as  with  a  demon  the  peasants  of  this  district. 
Not  only- have  they  given  a  saint,  with  a  shirt  of  hair- 
cloth and  a  scourge,  to  every  cavern,  and  a  druid  with 
his  golden  sickle  and  his  mistletoe  to  every  circle  of 
shapeless  stones,  but  they  have  made  the  Vernons,  the 
Cavendishes,  the  Cockaynes,  and  the  Eoljanibes  erect 
on  every  wild  place  crosses  or  altars  of  atonement  for 
crimes  which  they  never  committed ;  unless  fighting 
ankle-deep  in  heathen  blood,  for  the  recovery  of  Jeru- 
salem and  the  holy  sepulchre,  required  such  outlandish 
penance.  They  cast,  too,  a  supernatural  hght  round  the 
commonest  story ;  if  you  credit  them,  the  ancient  chapel 
bell  of  Haddou,  safely  lodged  on  the  floor  for  a  century, 
is  carried  to  the  top  of  the  turret,  and,  touched  by  some 
invisible  hand,  is  made  to  toll  forth  midnight  notes  of 
dolor  and  woe,  when  any  misfortune  is  about  to  befall 
the  noble  family  of  Rutland.  They  tell  you,  too,  that 
wailings  of  no  earthly  voice  are  heard  around  the  decayed 
towers  and  along  the  garden  terraces,  on  the  festival 
night  of  the  saint  who  presided  of  old  over  the  fortunes 
of  the  name  of  Vernon.  And  no  longer  agone  than  yes- 
terday, old  Edgar  Ferrars  assured  me  that  he  had  nearly 
as  good  as  seen  the  apparition  of  the  King  of  the  Peak 
himself,  mounted  on  liis  visionary  steed,  and  with  imagi- 
nary horn  and  hound  and  halloo  pursumg  a  spectre 
stag  over  the  wild  chase  of  Haddou.  Nay,  so  far  has 
vulgar  credulity  and  assurance  gone,  that  the  great  gar- 


214<  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

den  entrance,  called  the  Knight's  porch,  through  which 
Dora  Vernon  descended  step  by  step  among  her  twenty 
attendant  maidens,  all  rustling  in  embroidered  silks,  and 
shining  and  sparkling  like  a  winter  sky,  in  diamonds,  and 
such-hke  costly  stones,  —  to  welcome  her  noble  bride- 
groom, Lord  John  Manners,  who  came  cap  in  hand  with 
his  company  of  gallant  gentlemen —  ' 

" '  Nay,  now,  dame  Foljambe,'  interrupted  the  hus- 
bandman, '  all  this  is  fine  enough,  and  lordly  too,  I  '11 
warrant ;  but  thou  must  not  apparel  a  })lain  old  tale  in 
the  embroidered  raiment  of  thy  own  brain,  nor  adorn  it 
in  the  precious  stones  of  thy  own  fancy.  Dora  Vernon 
was  a  lovely  lass,  and  as  proud  as  she  was  lovely  :  she 
bore  her  head,  high,  dame ;  and  well  she  might,  for  she 
M'as  a  gallant  knight's  daughter;  and  lords  and  dukes, 
and  what  not,  have  descended  from  her.  But,  for  all 
that,  I  cannot  forget  that  she  ran  away  in  the  middle  of 
a  moonlight  night  with  young  Lord  John  Manners,  and 
no  other  attendant  than  her  own  sweet  self.  Ay,  dame, 
and  for  the  diamonds,  and  what  not,  which  thy  story 
showers  on  her  locks  and  her  garments,  she  tied  up  her 
berry  brown  locks  in  a  menial's  cap,  and  ran  away  in  a 
mantle  of  Bakcwcll  brown,  three  yards  for  a  groat.  Ay, 
dame,  and  instead  of  going  out  regularly  by  the  door, 
she  leapt  out  of  a  window ;  more  by  token  she  left  one 
of  her  silver-heeled  slippers  fastened  in  the  grating,  and 
the  place  has  ever  since  been  called  ihe  Lady's  Leap.' 

"Dame  Foljambe,  like  an  inexperienced  rider,  whose 
steed  refuses  obedience  to  voice  and  hand,  resigned  the 
contest  in  despair,  and  allowed  her  rustic  companion  to 
enter  full  career  into  the  debatable  land,  where  she  had 


THE    KING    or    THE    PEAK.  215 

SO  often  fought  and  vanquished  in  defence  of  the  deco- 
rum of  the  mode  of  alliance  between  the  houses  of  Had- 
don  and  Rutland. 

" '  And  now,  dame,'  said  the  husbandman,  '  I  will  tell 
thee  the  story  in  my  own  and  my  father's  way.  The  last 
of  the  name  of  Vernon  was  renowned  far  and  wide  for 
the  hospitaUty  and  magnificence  of  his  house,  for  the 
splendor  of  his  retinue,  and  more  for  the  beauty  of  his 
daughters,  Margaret  and  Dorothy.  This  is  speaking  iu 
thy  owii  manner,  dame  Toljambe ;  but  truth 's  truth. 
He  was  much  giveu  to  hunting  and  hawking,  and  joust- 
ing, with  lances  either  blunt  or  sharp;  and  though  a 
harquebuss  generally  was  found  in  the  hand  of  the  gal- 
lant hunters  of  that  time,  the  year  of  grace  1560,  Sir 
George  Vernon  despised  that  foreign  weapon ;  and  well 
he  might,  for  ho  bent  the  strongest  bow,  and  shot  the 
surest  shaft,  of  any  man  in  England.  His  chase-dogs, 
too,  were  all  of  the  most  expert  and  famous  kinds,  his 
falcons  had  the  fairest  and  most  certain  flight;  and 
thougii  he  had  seen  foreign  lands,  he  chiefly  prided  him- 
self in  maintaining  unimpaired  the  old  baronial  grandeur 
of  his  house.  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say,  how  his 
great-grandsire  told  him,  that  the  like  of  the  Knight 
of  Haddon,  fur  a  stately  form  and  a  noble,  free,  and 
natural  grace  of  manner,  was  not  to  be  seen  in  court 
or  camp.  He  was  hailed,  in  common  tale  and  in  min- 
strel song,  by  the  name  of  the  King  of  the  Peak; 
and  it  is  said  his  handsome  person  and  witchery  of 
tongue  chiefly  prevented  his  mistress,  good  Queen  Bess, 
from  abridging  his  provincial  designation  with  the  heads- 
man's axe. 


216  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

" '  It  happened  in  the  fifth  year  of  the  reiga  of  his 
youug  and  sovereign  mistress,  that  a  great  hunting  festi- 
val was  licld  at  lladdon,  where  all  the  beauty  and  high 
blood  of  Derbyshire  assembled.  Lords  of  distant  coun- 
ties came ;  for  to  bend  a  bow  or  brittle  the  deer,  under 
the  eye  of  Sir  George  Vernon,  was  an  honor  sought  for 
by  many.  Over  the  chase  of  Haddon,  over  the  Hill  of 
Stanton,  over  Bakewell-Edge,  over  Cliatsworth  Hill  and 
Hardwicke  Plain,  and  beneath  the  ancient  Castle  of  Bol- 
sover,  as  far  as  the  edge  of  the  forest  of  old  Sherwood, 
were  the  sounds  of  harquebuss  and  bowstring  heard,  and 
the  cry  of  dogs  and  the  cheering  of  men.  The  brown- 
mouthed  and  white-footed  dogs  of  Derbyshire  were  there 
among  the  foremost;  the  snow-white  hound  and  the 
coal-black,  from  the  Scottish  border  and  bonny  West- 
moreland, preserved  or  augmented  their  ancient  fame ; 
nor  were  the  dappled  hounds  of  old  Godfrey  Foljambe, 
of  Bakewell  bank,  far  from  the  throat  of  the  red  deer 
when  they  turned  at  bay,  and  gored  horses  and  riders. 
The  great  hall  floor  of  Haddon  was  soon  covered  with 
the  produce  of  wood  and  wild. 

" '  Nor  were  the  preparations  for  feasting  this  noble 
hunting-party  unworthy  the  reputation  for  solid  hospi- 
tality which  characterized  the  ancient  Kuig  of  the  Peak. 
Minstrels  had  come  from  distant  parts,  as  far  even  as  the 
Scott isli  border;  bold,  free-spoken,  rude,  rough-witted 
men;  "for  the  selvage  of  the  web,"  says  the  nortliern 
proverb,  "is  aye  the  coarsest  cloth."  But  in  the  larder 
tlie  skill  of  man  was  chiefly  employed,  and  'a  thousand 
rarities  were  prepared  for  pleasing  the  eye  and  appeasing 
the  appetite.      In  the  kitchen,  with  its  huge  chimneys 


THE  KING  OF  THE  PEAK.        217 

and  prodigious  spits,  the  menial  maidens  were  flooded 
nigli  ankle-deep  in  the  riclmcss  of  roasted  oxen  and 
deer;  and  along  the  passage,  communicating  with  the 
hall  of  state,  meu  might  have  slided  along,  because  of 
the  fat  droppings  of  that  prodigious  feast,  like  a  slider 
on  the  frozen  Wye.  The  kitchen  tables,  of  solid  plank, 
groaned  and  yielded  beneath  the  roasted  beeves  and  the 
spitted  deer ;  while  a  stream  of  rich  smoke,  massy  and 
slow  and  savory,  sallied  out  at  the  grated  windows,  and 
sailed  round  the  mansion,  like  a  mist  exhaled  by  the 
influence  of  the  moon.  I  tell  thee,  dame  Foljambe,  I 
call  those  the  golden  days  of  old  England. 

"  '  But  I  ^vjsh  you  had  seen  the  hail  prepared  for  this 
prmcely  feast.  The  floor,  of  hard  and  solid  stone,  was 
strewn  deep  wdth  rushes  and  fern;  and  there  lay  the 
dogs  of  the  chase  in  couples,  their  moutlis  still  red  with 
the  blood  of  stags,  and  panting  yet  from  the  fervor  and 
length  of  their  pursuit.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  hall, 
where  the  floor  subsided  a  step,  was  spread  a  table  for 
the  stewards  and  other  chiefs  over  the  menials.  There 
sat  the  keeper  of  the  bows,  the  warder  of  the  chase,  and 
the  head  falconer,  together  with  many  others  of  lower 
degree,  but  mighty  men  among  the  retainers  of  the  noble 
name  of  Vernon.  Over  their  heads  were  hung  the  horns 
of  stags,  the  jaws  of  boars,  the  skulls  of  the  enormous 
bisons,  and  the  foreheads  of  foxes.  Nor  were  there 
wanting  trophies,  where  the  contest  had  been  more 
bloody  and  obstinate,  —  banners  and  shields  and  hel- 
mets, won  in  the  Civil  and  Scottish  and  Crusading  wars, 
together  with  many  strange  weapons  of  annoyance  or 
defence,   borne   in   tlio    Norwegian   and   Saxon   broils. 

VOL.    VII,  10 


218  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Beside  them  were  Imiig  rude  paintings  of  tlie.  most  re- 
nowned of  tbese  rustic  heroes,  all  in  the  picturesque 
habiliments  of  the  times.  Horns  and  harquebusses  and 
swords  and  bows  and  buff  coats  and  caps  were  thrown 
in  negligent  groups  all  about  the  floors  while  their  own- 
ers sat  in  expectation  of  an  immediate  and  ample  feast, 
which  they  hoped  to  wash  down  with  floods  of  that 
salutary  beverage,  the  brown  blood  of  barley. 

" '  At  the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  where  the  floor  was 
elevated  exactly  as  much  in  respect  as  it  was  lowered  in 
submission  at  the  other,  there  the  table  for  feasting  tlio 
nobles  stood  ;  and  well  was  it  worthy  of  its  station.  It 
was  one  solid  plank  of  white  sycamore,  shaped  from  the 
entire  shaft  of  an  enormous  tree,  and  supported  on  squat 
columns  of  oak,  ornamented  with  the  arms  of  the  Ver- 
nons,  and  grooved  into  the  stone  floor,  beyond  all  chance 
of  being  upset  by  human  powers.  Benches  of  wood, 
curiously  carved,  and  covered,  in  times  of  more  than 
ordinary  ceremony,  with  cushions  of  embroidered  velvet, 
surrounded  this  ample  table;  while  in  the  recess  be- 
hind appeared  a  curious  work  in  arras,  consisting  of 
festivals  and  processions  and  bridals,  executed  from  the 
ancient  poets ;  and  for  the  more  staid  and  grave,  a 
more  devout  hand  had  wrought  some  scenes  from  the 
controversial  fathers  and  tlie  monkish  legends  of  the 
ancient  church.  The  former  employed  the  white  liands 
of  Dora  Vernon  herself;  while  the  latter  were  the  labors 
of  her  sister  Margaret,  who  was  of  a  serious  turn,  and 
never  happened  to  be  so  far  in  love  as  to  lca[)  from  a 
window.' 

"'And  now,'  said  danie   yoljauibc,    'I  will   describe 


THE    KING    or    THE    PEAK.  219 

the  Knight  of  Haddon,  with  his  fair  daugliters  and 
principal  guests,  myself.'  'A  task  that  will  last  thee 
to  doomsday,  dame,'  muttered  the  husbandman.  The 
portress  heeded  not  this  ejaculation,  but  with  a  particu- 
lar stateliness  of  delivery  proceeded.  '  The  silver  dinner- 
bell  rung  on  the  sunmiit  of  Haddon  Hall,  the  warder 
thrice  wound  his  liorn,  and  straightway  the  sound  of 
silver  spurs  was  heard  in  the  passage,  the  folding-door 
opened,  and  in  marched  my  own  ancestor,  Ferrars  Eol- 
jambe  by  name.  I  have  heard  his  dress  too  often  de- 
scribed not  toj'emember  it.  A  buff  jerkin,  with  slashed 
and  ornamented  sleeves,  a  mantle  of  line  Lincoln  green, 
fastened  round  his  neck  with  wolf-claws  of  pure  gold,  a 
pair  of  gilt  spurs  on  the  heels  of  his  brown  hunting- 
boots,  garnished  above  with  taslets  of  silver,  and  at  the 
square  and  turned-up  toes,  with  links  of  the  same  metal 
connected  with  the  taslets.  On  his  head  was  a  boar- 
skin  cap,  on  which  the  wliite  teeth  of  the  boar  were  set, 
tipt  with  gold.  At  his  side  was  a  hunting-horn,  called 
the  white  hunting-horn  of  Tutbury,  banded  with  silver 
in  the  middle,  belted  with  black  silk  at  the  ends,  set  with 
buckles  of  silver,  and  bearing  the  arms  of  Edmund,  the 
warlike  brother  of  Edward  Longshanks.  This  fair  horn 
descended  by  marriage  to  Stanhope,  of  Elvaston,  who 
sold  it  to  Eoxlowc,  of  Staveley.  The  gift  of  a  king  and 
the  property  of  heroes  was  sold  for  some  paltry  pieces  of 
gold.' 

" '  Dame  Foljambe,'  said  the  old  man,  '  the  march  of 
,thy  tale  is  like  the  course  of  the  Wye,  seventeen  miles  of 
links  and  windings  down  a  fair  valley  five  miles  long. 
A  man  midit  carve  thv  ancestor's  fiarure  in  alabaster  in 


•2:iO  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


the  time  tliou  describest  liim.  I  must  resume  my  story, 
dame;  so  let  thy  description  of  old  Ferrars  Foljambe 
stand ;  and  suppose  the  table  filled  about  with  the  gal- 
lants of  the  chase  and  many  fair  ladies,  while  at  the  head 
sat  the  King  of  the  Peak  hhnself,  his  beard  descending 
to  his  broad  girdle,  his  own  natural  hair  of  dark  brown 
—  blessings  on  the  head  that  keeps  God's  own  covering 
on  it,  and  scorns  the  curled  inventions  of  man !  —  falling 
in  thick  masses  on  his  broad,  manly  shoulders.  Nor 
silver  nor  gold  wore  he ;  the  natural  nobleness  of  his 
looks  maintained  his  rank  and  pre-eminence  among  men ; 
the  step  of  Sir  George  Vernon  was  one  that  many  imi- 
tated, but  few  could  attain,  —  at  once  manly  and  grace- 
ful. I  have  heard  it  said  that  he  carried  privately  in  his 
bosom  a  small  rosary  of  precious  metal,  in  which  his 
favorite  daughter  Dora  had  entwined  one  of  her  mother's 
tresses.  The  ewer-bearers  entered  with  silver  basins  full 
of  wateiv;  the  element  came  pure  and  returned  red ;  for 
the  hands  of  the  guests  were  stained  with  the  blood 
of  the  chase.  The  attendant  minstrels  vowed  that  no 
hands  so  shapely,  nor  fingers  so  taper  and  long  and  white 
and  round,  as  those  of  the  Knight  of  Iladdon,  were  that 
day  dipped  in  water. 

" '  There  is  wondrous  little  pleasure  in  describing  a 
feast  of  which  we  have  not  partaken :  so  pass  we  on  to 
the  time  when  the  fair  dames  retired,  and  the  red  wine 
in  cups  of  gold,  and  the  ale  in  silver  flagons,  shone  and 
sparkled  as  they  passed  from  hand  to  lip  beneath  the 
blaze  of  seven  massy  lamps.  The  knights  toasted  their 
mistresses,  tlic  retainers  told  tlieir  exploits,  and  the 
iiiiiislrcls   witli  harp  and   lougue  made   miLsie  and  song 


THE  KING  OF  THE  PEAK.        221 

abound.  The  gentles  struck  their  drinking-vessels  on 
the  tab^e  till  they  rang  again  ;  the  menials  stamped  with 
the  heels  of  their  ponderous  boots  on  the  solid  floor ; 
while  the  hounds,  imagining  they  heard  the  call  to  the 
chase,  leaped  up,  and  bayed  in  hoarse  but  appropriate 
chorus. 

"  '  The  ladies  now  reappeared  in  the  side  galleries,  and 
overlooked  the  scene  of  festivity  below.  The  loveUest 
of  many  counties  were  there  ;  but  the  fairest  was  a  young 
maid  of  middle  size,  in  a  dress  disencumbered  of  orna- 
ment, and  possessed  of  one  of  those  free  and  graceful 
forms  which  may  be  met  with  in  other  counties,  but  for 
which  our  own  Derbyshire  alone  is  famous.  Those  who 
admired  the  grace  of  her  person  were  no  less  charmed 
with  her  simplicity  and  natural  meekness  of  deportment. 
Nature  did  much  for  her,  and  art  strove  in  vain  to  rival 
her  with  others  ;  while  health,  that  handmaid  of  beauty, 
supplied  her  eye  and  her  cheek  with  the  purest  light  and 
the  freshest  roses.  Her  short  and  rosy  upper  lip  was 
sliglitly  curled,  with  as  much  of  maiden  sanctity,  per- 
haps, as  pride  ;  her  white  high  forehead  was  shaded  witli 
locks  of  sunny  brown,  while  her  large  and  dark  hazel  eyes 
beamed  with  free  and  unaffected  modesty.  Those  who 
observed  her  close  might  see  her  eyes,  as  she  glanced 
about,  sparkling  for  a  moment  with  other  lights,  but 
scarce  less  holy,  than  those  of  devotion  and  awe.  Of  all 
the  knights  present,  it  was  impossible  to  say  who  in- 
spired her  with  those  love-tits  of  flushing  joy  and  deli- 
cious agitation;  each  hoped  himself  the  happy  person; 
for  none  could  look  on  Dora  Vernon  without  aw©  and 
love.     She  leaned  her  white  bosom,  shining  through  the 


0  00 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


veil  which  shaded  it,  near  one  of  the  minstrel's  harps  ; 
and  looking  round  on  the  presence,  her  ej-es  grew.briglit- 
er  as  she  looked;  at  least  so  vowed  the  knights  and  so 
sang  the  minstrels. 

"  '  All  the  knights  arose  when  Dora  Vernon  appeared. 
"  Fill  all  your  wine-cups,  knights,"  said  Sir  Lucas  Peverel. 
"  Fill  them  to  the  brim/*  said  Sir  Henry  Avenel,  "  And 
drain  them  out,  were  they  deeper  than  the  Wye,"  said  Sir 
Godfrey  Gernon.  "  To  the  health  of  the  Princess  of  the 
Peak,"  said  Sir  Ralph  Cavendish.  "To  the  health  of 
Dora  Vernon,"  said  Sir  Ilngh  de  Wodensley  ;  "  beauty  is 
above  titles,  she  is  the  loveliest  maiden  a  knight  ever 
looked  on,  with  the  sweetest  name  too."  "  And  yet.  Sir 
Knight,"  said  Peverel,  filling  his  cup,  "  I  know  one  who 
thinks  so  humbly  of  the  fair  name  of  Vernon,  as  to  wish 
it  charmed  into  that  of  Do  Wodensley."  "  He  is  not 
master  of  a  spell  so  profound,"  said  Avenel.  "  And  yet 
he  is  master  of  his  sword,"  answered  De  Wodensley,  with 
a  darkening  brow.  "I  counsel  him  to  keep  it  in  his 
sheath,"  said  Cavendish,  "  lest  it  prove  a  wayward  ser- 
vant." "  I  will  prove  its  service  on  thy  bosom  where  and 
wlion  thou  wilt.  Lord  of  Cliatsworth,"  said  De  Wodensley. 
"  Lord  of  Darley,"  answered  Cavendish,  "  it  is  a  temptiug 
mooulight,  but  there  is  a  charm  over  Haddon  to-night  it 
would  be  unseemly  to  dispel.  To-morrow,  I  meet  Lord 
John  Manners  to  try  whose  liawk  has  the  fairer  fliglit 
and  whose  love  the  whiter  haud.  That  can  be  soon 
secu;  for  who  has  so  fair  a  hand  as  the  love  of  young 
llutlaud  ?  I  sliall  be  fouud  by  Durwood-Tor  when  the 
sun  is  three  hours  up,  willi  my  sword  drawn,  —  there's 
my  hand  on  't.   Do   Wodensley."     And   he  wrung  the 


THE    KING    OF    THE    PEAK.  223 

kniglit's  hand  till  the  blood  seemed  starting  from  l)e- 
neath  his  finger-nails. 

"  '  "  By  the  saints.  Sir  Knights,"  said  Sir  Godfrey  Ger- 
non,  "you  may  as  well  beard  one  another  about  the  love 
of  '  some  bright  particular  star  and  think  to  wed  it,'  as 
the  wild  wizard  of  Warwick  says,  as  quarrel  about  this 
unattainable  love.  Hearken,  minstrels :  while  we  drain 
our  cups  to  this  beauteous  lass,  sing  some  of  you  a  kindly 
love-strain,  wondrously  mirthful  and  melancholy.  Here 's 
a  cup  of  Rhenish,  and  a  good  gold  Harry  in  the  bottom 
on  't,  for  the  minstrel  who  pleases  me."  Tlie  mhistrels 
laid  their  hands' on  the  strings,  and  a  sound  was  heard 
like  the  swarming  of  bees  before  summer  thunder.  "  Sir 
Knight,"  said  one,  "  I  will  sing  ye  Cannie  Johnnie  Arm- 
strong with  all  the  seventeen  variations."  "  He  was 
hanged  for  cattle  stealing,"  answered  the  knight ;  "  I  '11 
have  none  of  him."  "  What  say  you  to  Dick  of  the  Cow, 
or  the  Harper  of  Lochmaben  ?  "  said  another,  with  some- 
thing of  a  tone  of  diffidence.  "  What !  you  northern 
knaves,  can  you  sing  of  nothing  but  thievery  and  jail- 
breaking?"  "Perhaps  your  knightship,"  humbly  sug- 
gested a  third,  "may  have  a  turn  for  the  supernatural, 
and  I  'm  thinking  the  Fairy  Legend  of  young  Tamlane  is 
just  the  thing  that  suits  your  fancy."  "  I  like  the  naivete 
of  the  young  lady  very  much,"  answered  the  knight, 
"  but  the  fair  dames  of  Derbyshii-e  prize  the  charms  of 
lovers  with  flesh  and  blood,  before  the  gayest  Elfin-knight 
that  ever  ran  a  course  from  Carlisle  to  Caerlaverock." 
"  What  would  your  worship  say  to  Wilham  of  Cloudes- 
ley  ?  "  said  a  Cumberland  minstrel.  "  Or  to  the  Friar  of 
Orders  Grey  ? "  said  a  harper  from  the  halls  of  the  Percys. 


Hill  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  '  "  Minstrels,"  said  Sir  Ralpli  Cavendish,  "  the  inven- 
tion of  sweet  and  gentle  poesy  is  dead  among  you.  Every 
churl  in  the  Peak  can  chant  us  these  beautiful  but  com- 
mon ditties.  Have  you  nothing  new  for  the  honor  of  the 
sacred  calling  of  verse  and  the  beauty  of  Dora  Vernon  ? 
Fellow,  —  harper,  — what 's  your  name  ?  —  you  with  the 
long  hah'  and  the  green  mantle,"  said  the  knight,  beck- 
oning to  a  young  minstrel  who  sat  with  his  harp  held 
before  him,  and  his  face  half  buried  in  his  mantle's 
fold ;  "  come,  touch  your  strings  and  sing ;  I  '11  wager 
my  gold-hilted  sword  against  tha,t  pheasant  feather  in 
thy  cap,  that  thou  hast  a  new  and  a,  gallant  strain ;  for  I 
have  seen  thee  measure  more  than  once  the  form  of  fair 
Dora  A^ernon  with  a  ballad-maker's  eye.  Sing,  man, 
suig." 

"  '  The  young  minstrel,  as  he  bowed  his  head  to  this 
singular  mode  of  request,  blushed  from  brow  to  bosom ; 
nor  were  the  face  and  neck  of  Dora  Venion  without  an 
acknowledgment  of  how  deeply  she  sympathized  in  his 
embarrassment.  A  finer  instrument,  a  truer  hand,  or  a 
more  sweet  and  manly  voice  hardly  ever  united  to  lend 
grace  to  rhyme. 


THE   MINSTREL'S   SONG. 

Last  night  a  proud  page  cainc  to  iiic ; 
Sir  Knight,  he  said,  I  greet  you  free ; 
The  moon  is  up  at  midnight  hour, 
All  mute  and'  lonely  is  the  bower  : 
To  rouse  the  deer  my  lord  is  gone, 
And  his  lair  daul'hlcr  's  all  alone. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  PEAK.        225 

As  lily  fair,  and  as  sweet  to  see ; 
Arise,  Sir  Knight,  and  follow  me. 

The  stars  streamed  out,  the  new-woke  moon 
O'er  Chatsworth  hill  gleamed  brightly  down. 
And  my  love's  cheeks,  half  seen,  half  hid. 
With  love  and  joy  blushed  deeply  red  : 
Short  was  our  time,,  and  chaste  our  bliss, 
A  whispered  vow  and  a  gentle  kiss ; 
And  one  of  those  long  looks,  which  earth 
With  all  its  glory  is  not  worth. 

The  stars  beamed  lovelier  from  the  sky. 
The  smiling  brook  flowed  gentlier  by ; 
Life,  fly  thou  on ;  I  '11  mind  that  hour 
Of  sacred  love  in  greenw^ood  bower  ; 
Let  seas  between  us  swell  and  sound. 
Still  at  her  name  my  heart  shall  bound  ; 
Her  name  —  which  like  a  spell  I  '11  keep. 
To  soothe  me  and  to  charm  my  sleep. 

"  ' "  Fellow,"  said  Sir  Ralpb  Cavendisli,  "  thou  hast  not 
shamed  my  behef  of  thy  skill ;  keep  that  piece  of  gold, 
and  drink  thy  cup  of  wine  in  quiet  to  the  health  of  the 
lass  who  inspired  thy  strain,  be  she  lordly  or  be  she  low." 
The  minstrel  seated  himself,  and  the  interrupted  mirth 
recommenced,  which  was  not  long  to  continue.  When 
the  minstrel  began  to  sing,  the  King  of  the  Peak  fixed 
his  large  and  searching  eyes  on  his  person,  with  a  scru- 
tiny from  which  nothing  could  escape,  and  which  called 
a  flush  of  apprehension  to  the  face  of  his  daughter  Dora. 
Something  like  a  cloud  came  upon  his  brow  at  the  first 
verse,  wliich,  darkening  down  through  the  second,  became 
10*  o 


226  LITTLE  'CLASSICS. 

as  dark  as  a  December  night  at  the  close  of  the  third, 
when  rising,  and  motioning  Sir  Kalph  Cavendisli  to  fol- 
low, he  retired  into  the  recess  of  the  southern  window. 

"  '  "  Sir  Knight,"  said  the  lord  of  Haddon,  "  thou  art 
the  sworn  friend  of  John  Manners,  and  well  thou  knowest 
what  his  presumption  dares  at,  and  what  are  the  lets 
between  him  and  me.  Cave^do  tatus  ?  ponder  on  thy 
own  motto  Avell.  'Let  seas  between  us  swell  and 
sound ' :  —  let  his  song  be  prophetic  for  Derbyshire,  — 
for  England  has  no  river  deep  enough  and  broad  enough 
to  preserve  him  from  a  father's  sword,  whose  peace  he 
seeks  to  wound."  "  Knight  of  Haddon,"  said  Sir  llalph, 
"  John  Manners  is  indeed  my  friend,  and  the  friend  of  a 
Cavendish  can  be  no  mean  person  ;  a  braver  and  a  bet- 
ter spirit  never  aspired  after  beauty."  "Sir  Knight," 
said  the  King  of  the  Peak,  "  I  court  lio  man's  counsel ; 
hearken  to  my  words.  Look  at  the  moon's  shadow  on 
Haddon-dial ;  there  it  is  beside  the  casement  ;  the 
shadow  falls  short  of  twelve.  If  it  darkens  the  mid- 
night hour,  and  John  Manners  be  found  here,  he  shall 
be  cast  fettered,  neck  and  heel,  into  tlie  deepest  dungeon 
of  Haddon." 

" '  All  this  passed  not  unobserved  of  Dora  Vernon, 
wliose  fears  and  afl'cctions  divined  immediate  mischief 
from  tlie  calm  speech  and  darkened  brow  of  her  father. 
Her  heart  sank  -within  her  when  he  beckoned  her  to 
withdraw ;  she  followed  him  into  the  great  tapestried 
room.  "My  daugliter,  —  my  love  Dora,"  said  the  not 
idle  fears  of  a  father,  "wine  lias  done  more  than  ils 
usual  good  olhee  with  the  wits  of  our  guests  to-niglit ; 
they  look  on  thee  Avilli   boldiM-  eyes  ami  sjieak  of  (hee 


THE    KIXG    OF    THE    PEAK.  227 

witli  a  bolder  tongue  than  a  father  can  wish.  Retire, 
therefore,  to  thy  chamber.  One  of  thy  wisest  attendants 
shall  be  thy  companion.  Adieu,  my  love,  till  sunrise  !  " 
He  kissed  her  white  temples  and  white  brow  ;  and  Dora 
clung  to  his  neck,  and  sobbed  in  his  bosom,  while  the 
secret  of  her  heart  rose  near  her  lips.  He  returned  to 
his  guests,  and  mirth  and  music,  and  the  march  of  the 
wine-cup,  recommenced  with  a  vigor  which  promised 
reparation  for  the  late  intermission. 

"  '  The  chamber,  or,  rather,  temporary  prison,  of  Dora 
Vernon  was  nigh  the  cross-bow  room,  and  had  a  window 
which  looked  out  on  the  terraced  garden  and  the  exten- 
sive chase  toward  the  hill  of  Haddon.  All  that  side  of 
the  hall  lay  in  deep  shadow,  and  the  moon,  sunk  to  the 
very  summit  of  the  western  heath,  thi-ew  a  level  and  a 
farewell  beam  over  river  and  tower.  The  young  lady  of 
Haddon  seated  herself  in  the  recessed  window,  and  lent 
her  ear  to  every  sound,  and  her  eye  to  every  shadow 
that  flitted  over  the  garden  and  chase.  Her  attendant 
maiden  —  shrewd,  demure,  and  suspicious,  of  the  ripe 
age  of  thirty,  yet  of  a  merry  pleasant  look,  which  had 
its  admirers  —  sat  watching  every  motion  with  the  eye 
of  an  owl. 

" '  It  was  past  midnight,  when  a  foot  came  ghding 
along  the  passage,  and  a  finger  gave  three  slight  scratches 
on  the  door  of  the  chamber.  The  maid  went  out,  and 
after  a  brief  conference  suddenly  returned,  red  with 
blushes  from  ear  to  ear.  "  O  my  lady  !  "  said  the  trusty 
maiden,  —  "0  my  sweet  young  lady,  here  's  that  poor 
young  lad,  —  ye  know  his  name,  —  who  gave  me  three 
yards  of  crimson  ribbon  to  trim  my  peach-bloom  mantle. 


228  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

last  Bakewell  fair.  An  houester  or  a  kinder  heart 
never  kept  a  promise ;  and  yet  I  may  not  give  liim  the 
meeting.  O  my  young  lady,  my  sweet  young  lady, 
my  beautiful  young  lady,  could  you  not  stay  here  for 
half  an  hour  by  yourself?"  Ere  her  young  mistress 
could  answer,  the  notice  of  the  lover's  presence  was 
renewed.  The  maiden  again  went :  wliispers  M'ere  heard, 
and  the  audible  salutation  of  lips;  she  returned  agam 
more  resolute  than  ever  to  oblige  her  lover.  "  0  my 
lady,  my  young  lady,  if  ye  ever  hope  to  prosper  in 
true  love  yourself,  spare  me  but  one  half-hour  with  this 
harmless  kind  lad.  He  has  come  seven  long  miles 
to  see  my  fair  face,  he  says;  and,  O  my  lady,  he  has 
a  handsome  face  of  his  own.  O,  never  let  it  be  said 
that  Dora  Vernon  sundered  true  lovers  !  But  I  see 
consent  written  in  your  own  lovely  face,  —  so  I  will  run ; 
and,  O  my  lady,  take  care  of  your  own  sweet,  handsome 
self,  when  your  faitiiful  Nan 's  away  !  "  And  the  maiden 
retired  with  her  lover. 

" '  It  was  half  an  hour  after  midnight  when  one  of 
the  keepers  of  the  chase,  as  he  lay  beneath  a  holly-bush 
listening,  with  a  prolonged  groan,  to  the  audible  voice  of 
revelry  in  the  hall,  from  which  his  duty  had  lately  ex- 
cluded him,  hai)pcncd  to  observe  two  forms  approaching ; 
one  of  low  stature,  a  light  step,  and  muffled  in  a  common 
mantle;  the  other  with  the  air  and  in  the  dress  of  a 
forester,  a  sword  at  his  side  and  pistols  in  his  belt.  The 
ale  and  the  wine  had  invaded  the  keeper's  brain  and 
impaired  his  sight;  yet  he  roused  himself  up  with  a 
liiccup  and  a  "llilloah,"  and  "Where  go  ye,  my 
masters?"    Tlie  lesser  form  Avliispcrcd  to  the  other,  who 


THE    KING    OF   THE    PEAK.  2^9 

immediately  said,  "  Jaspsr  Jugg,  is  this  you  ?  Heaven 
be  praised  I  have  found  you  so  soon  ;  here  's  that  uorth- 
country  pedler,  with  liis  beads  and  blue  ribbon,  he  has 
come  and  whistled  out  pretty  Nan  Malkin,  the  lady's 
favorite  and  the  lord's  trusty  maid.  I  left  them  under 
the  terrace,  and  came  to  tell  you." 

" '  The  enraged  keeper  scarce  heard  this  account  of  the 
faithlessness  of  his  love  to  an  end ;  he  started  off  with 
the  swiftness  of  one  of  the  deer  which  he  watched,  mak- 
ing the  boughs  crash,  as  he  forced  his  way  through  bush 
and  glade  direct  for  the  hall,  vowdng  desertion  to  the 
girl  and  destruction  to  the  pedler.  "Let  us  hasten  our 
steps,  my  love,"  said  the  lesser  figure,  in  a  sweet  voice ; 
and  unmantling  as  she  spoke,  turned  back  to  the  towers 
of  Haddon  the  fairest  face  that  ever  left  them,  —  the 
face  of  Dora  Vernon  herself.  "  My  men  and  my  horses 
are  nigh,  my  love,"  said  the  taller  figure ;  and  taking  a 
silver  call  from  his  pocket,  he  imitated  the  sharp,  shrdl 
cry  of  the  plover ;  then  turning  round,  he  stood  and  gazed 
towards  Haddon,  scarcely  darkened  by  the  setting  of  the 
moon,  for  the  festal  lights  flashed  from  turret  and  case- 
ment, and  the  sound  of  mirth  and  revelry  rang  witli  aug- 
menting din.  "Ah,  fair  and  stately  Haddon,"  said  Lord 
John  Manners,  "  little  dost  thou  know  thou  hast  lost  thy 
jewel  fi-om  thy  brow,  else  thy  lights  would  be  dimmed, 
thy  mirth  would  turn  to  wailing,  and  swords  would  be 
flashing  from  thy  portals  in  all  the  haste  of  hot  pursuit. 
Farewell,  for  a  wliile,  fair  tower,  farewell  for  a  while. 
I  shall  return  and  bless  the  time  I  harped  among  thy 
menials  and  sang  of  my  love,  and  charmed  her  out  of 
thy  little  chamber  window."     Several  armed  men  now 


230 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


came  suddenly  down  from  tlie  hill  of  Haddon,  horses 
richly  caparisoned  were  bronght  from  among  tlie  trees 
of  the  chase,  and  the  ancestors  of  the  present  family  of 
Rutland  sought  shelter,  for  a  time,  in  a  distant  land, 
from  the  wrath  of  the  King  of  the  Peak.'  " 


